Even Dragons
by TolkienGirl
Summary: "So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings." But how does one slay a dragon and reclaim a homeland in a land without magic, where the monsters are men? (Modern AU of Thorin, Gandalf, Bilbo, and all the rest-with an especial focus on the Durins, and much high adventure!) (T for violence, angst, language, and a bit of romance. NO SLASH at all. AT ALL)
1. we must away, ere break of day

**A/N: I am taking the plunge, and writing a modern AU! I have been so delighted by the prospect of one-and then I was in a very boring meeting, and plotted out the whole thing! Due to a busy schedule, posting may be a bit slow, but I will do my best...and the fact that I have all the details ironed out should certainly help. Here is the first chapter, preceded by a bunch of notes that you are welcome to skip.**

**-Disclaimer: obviously, this is a tribute (a very, very fond one) to Tolkien. It's not meant to disrespect or replace the wonder of his world and works. I may toy with canon—not in the essentials, but in how it all ends up. However, I want the plotline—and characters, and themes, and motivations—to be recognizable.**

**-Geography. Pretty much the idea is that this is in our world-and because I'm from the US, I suppose it also is. However, the beautiful accents of our beloved characters remain, of course, so there is some ambiguity as to where this takes place. Think of a modernized Middle Earth, with cities and highways and industry, but without the strict demarcations of one country's states and towns. The important part is that Middle Earth geography is somewhat reflected-so Bilbo is in the West and Erebor in the East.**

**-Bilbo and the ring. I won't spoil how I plan to have THAT plot point come about, but I am choosing to attend more to book canon in that Bilbo does not show such obsessive tendencies. If I choose to go canon with the ending, they'll be enough sadness to go around...I don't need Bilbo falling under the lure of something evil and addictive, too.**

**-Romance. Well, I've said it before and I'll say it again-this is NOT, nor will it ever be, slash. It is not implied or meant to be inferred, at all, ever. However, I do fancy a bit of romance, so there may be some OC's. If there are, I swear upon my beloved copy of LoTR that they will not be Mary-Sues, nor will they change the plot in any significant fashion. According to Jackson canon, too, Tauriel will be included and I disclose now that there will be Kiliel. It should also be noted that none of this romance will be graphic or overly suggestive. That's not how I roll. This fic is T for violence, and angst, and whatever mild swearing I see fit to include.**

**-I realize that this is not the first modern AU, and as such I'm sure there may be details which are slightly similar to other authors' modern interpretations of this work. Copying is NOT my intent, and I have worked hard to make sure that this my own flourish on Tolkien's work as much as possible. If there is a perceived problem, let me know.**

**-Also, Kili is a DJ. You have the Irish show ****_The Clinic_****, in which Aidan Turner starred, to thank for that. And check it out on Youtube!**

-**Reviews make me SO happy. But at any rate, I hope you enjoy this!**

_"It began long ago in a land far away to the east, the like of which you will not find in the world today."_

_i._

The air was thick with heat, and memory.

The day was warm for April, and the cramped interior of the carpenter's shop, crowded with half-finished chairs and tables, desks and armoires, was chokingly hot. Sawdust floated in the air like snowflakes, and settled on the tangled dark hair of the carpenter.

He fitted the corner brace almost seamlessly together, marked the place with the flat of his hammer, and struck.

_Twenty-seven years._

The brace solid, he stamped it. T and D, interlocking initials. A humble signature, hidden on lowly bits of wood. His mark on the world—his world, or any other's—had grown so very small.

_Twenty-seven years_. To the day, in fact. It was no remarkable anniversary—only another year in a long train of years, each more bitter than the one before.

And so it was that spring no longer brought him any joy. Spring brought customers, a phone ringing off the hook—the whole world suddenly frantic to try a hand at interior decorating. His was honest work, and it paid not only for his own spare accommodations but for those to whom he owed support—and he loathed it. Honest work it might be, but it was labor that could never fulfill his loss.

He hammered and measured and cut with unusual vengeance, swearing under his breath when splinters found their way around the callouses of his roughened hands.

He didn't hear the car outside, or the (admittedly quiet) footsteps on the walk, or the creak of the opening door. Indeed, the visitor had to repeat his greeting twice before the carpenter looked up.

His eyes—hard and bright and icy blue—narrowed when he saw who had disturbed his work. To an unsuspecting outsider, the man at the door would not be particularly notable. He was an eccentric fellow, certainly, in a battered gray coat that reached to his ankles, a meticulous silver ascot beneath an unkempt white beard, and an ancient gray fedora.

But if that unsuspecting outsider looked closer, he would see that the gaze beneath the disreputable hat was keen and bright. And as for the carpenter, he needed no such scrutiny. He knew the man at the door.

"Gandalf," he said, setting down his hammer, and brushing the sawdust from his muscled forearms.

"Thorin," returned the old man, with a hint of a smile. "It has been a long, long time."

"Indeed," Thorin answered, folding his arms. "It has been a long time since I have seen any of my grandfather's old friends. You have made yourself scarce."

Gandalf sighed. "I was not party to his madness, Thorin. I have gone my own way, in my own time, to see what could be done about the dreadful business. The last time we spoke, I asked you to be patient—"

"Patient?" Thorin interrupted, his eyes kindling. "Twenty-seven years is a long time to ask a man to be patient. Odd, that you should choose to come today, of all days. Or that you should come at all. You've been quite content leaving my family in exile. My nephews are grown, now, and have known nothing but hardship. They don't remember the old days. They know only bedtime stories and the false hopes of bitter old men." He scoffed, and picked up his hammer again. "Don't speak to me of patience."

Gandalf muttered an elaborate curse under his breath and set his hat down deliberately on the workbench, reveal a tousled mass of white hair. "You've always been obstinate, Thorin, for reasons just and unjust. I have not been idle any more than you have. And I have most certainly not turned my back on your family, whatever you may think!" He shook his head, and reaching into his coat, drew out an elaborately carved pipe.

"Not in here," Thorin admonished, though with a softened expression. "Last thing I need is another fire." He put a hand on Gandalf's arm, drawing him towards the door. "If you want to calm your nerves after the onslaught of my outburst, come outside."

Gandalf hid a smile and followed him, looking rather satisfied.

Once outside, Thorin lit a cigarette and handed him the lighter. "I won't apologize for my sharpness," he said at last. "But I will listen to whatever it is you seem to want so badly to say."

Gandalf puffed at his pipe for a few moments, seeming to choose his words. Finally, he spoke quietly. "Thorin, your grandfather is dead."

The cigarette faltered in Thorin's fingers.

Gandalf made to put a hand on his shoulder, then seemed to think better of it. "I am sorry," he said heavily. "It is…there are no words of true comfort to offer, save the offer that I bring."

Thorin turned to look at him. His face was carefully expressionless. "Offer?"

"I do not need to repeat the history," Gandalf replied, in a low voice. "Suffice it to say that your grandfather, despite accepting…the usurper of your family's good name to monopolize his estate and profits, despite blaming you and your father for—"

Thorin's voice was tight. "As you said, there is no need to repeat the history."

Gandalf nodded. "All the same, I must now add to it. Your grandfather was not wholly mad. In his last days, he repented of his harshness. He—I have good reason to believe that he wrote and signed another will, which, if found, would restore you and your family to all their former rights…" He paused. Thorin's face was very pale.

"You must be misinformed," he argued, struggling to keep his voice steady. "That monster would never permit my grandfather to undo what he had done. Even if he wrote such a will, it has been destroyed."

Gandalf shook his head. "No, Thorin. He concealed it in the Arkenstone."

There was a pause. Gandalf continued. "Yes. The Arkenstone, his most secret vault. I don't think you've ever seen it, and nor have I. Your grandfather hid it jealously, even in his kinder days. I have been long away, as you have reminded me. But I believe I can say with certainty that the monster, however trusted, has never seen the Arkenstone. And while I cannot ask you to forgive your grandfather, I hope that you will allow yourself a little more hope."

Thorin crushed the mangled cigarette beneath his heel and lit another, setting it to his lips with hands that he willed not to shake. "Who told you all of this?"

Gandalf seemed unwilling to answer, blowing larger and larger smoke rings with his pipe.

"Well?" Thorin demanded.

"Your father," said Gandalf, and his eyes were bright with sadness.

Thorin set his teeth against his lip. "My father?" he asked, and he could no longer keep his voice even and calm. "You saw my father?"

"Yes," Gandalf said. "But it is a story better left to another time." He saw that Thorin was about to interject, to force his question, and held up a hand. "Trust me, as you once did. For now, it is enough that I give you the map your father gave me, and the key that once only your grandfather had seen." He handed Thorin a padded envelope and mopped his brow. The sun was strong overhead.

Thorin stared at him for a long moment. "What does this mean?"

"It means," said Gandalf, "that it is time. To reclaim your legal rights to your family enterprise and estate at Lonely Mountain. It is time to take back Erebor."

_ii._

"Two burgers, one with onions and provolone, one with just tomato? Right? Good. That'll be about…fifteen minutes." Dis pocketed her notepad, smiled, and walked quickly through the swinging doors to the bustling kitchen.

_It's only six o'clock, and your feet hurt? You're getting too old to be a waitress._ The voice in her mind would have almost sounded like her eldest son's usual concern, but neither of her sons would ever call her _old_.

Dis smiled. Today was her birthday, she was off of work in an hour, and although she had scolded them not to trouble themselves on her account, both Fili and Kili were sure to be home as early as they could, with some carefully orchestrated (and hopefully intact) surprise for her.

Her sons. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that they were _men_ now—Fili was almost twenty-five, and Kili had just turned twenty.

Too old to be living at home, most people might have said. But Dis would have given anyone who tried that line a right earful. It wasn't like they could afford college—but between their three incomes, they could live comfortably enough, even if the flat was small…and what was more, they were _happy_.

Dis remembered being rich, and she knew better than to consider it equal to happiness.

_If only Thorin could see it the same way_, she mused, and stifled a sigh. Her older brother was a rare visitor these days, but he was never far from her thoughts. She knew that spring was hard for him—it reminded him of a day many years ago, when all their lives had changed…

Dis finished arranging the trays and shook her head to free her thoughts from such worries. Thorin had friends, and he loved his nephews with a fierce protectiveness. He would always be haunted, but perhaps time would assuage his bitterness.

_Someday._

If her brother would settle—if her sons would remain happy and free and (relatively) innocent—Dis could, she thought, be almost perfectly content. True, the 'almost' must remain—her husband's death, seventeen years ago, would never be mended—but Dis had allowed the memory to sweeten, rather than sour, her life.

An hour and a half later, Dis rested her aching feet, sipping at a cup of tea. The flat was something of a mess, but she couldn't bring herself to be overly worried about it. Her sons were the only expected visitors, and she still had half a crossword puzzle that she had been longing to complete for days.

Settling herself on the secondhand sofa—which required removing a stack of books, a pair of Kili's tattered jeans, and a marmalade tabby cat, Dis stole a few pleasant moments of rest.

They were shortlived. She had only gotten through half-a-dozen words before there was a resounding knock at the door.

Dis leapt up, displacing the cat (who had found her way to her lap) and nearly upsetting her tea. Who would be here, at eight o'clock at night? She wasn't expecting the boys for a few hours yet—

Hastily concealing as much of the untidiness as she could, she peered through the peephole, then flung open the door in surprise.

"Thorin!"

At first glance, he was the same as ever—the same faded suit he always wore for traveling, his short dark beard neatly trimmed, hair typically long and unruly. But when she put her arms around him, she felt the tension in his shoulders. He was uneasy.

Dis swallowed hard. "Come in! The boys are at work."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Where, at this hour?"

"A bar, and a nightclub." She threw up her hands. "I know, it reflects terribly on me, doesn't it? But they're quite well-behaved."

"I'm not worried about Fili," Thorin said, with the beginnings of a smile, but he did not sit down.

"What brings you here?" she asked, at length. "Of course I'm glad—"

"Do you remember Gandalf?" Thorin asked, and there were no traces of a smile on his face.

Dis remembered a gaze as sharp as a blade, a kindly smile, and an odd old hat. "Of course," she murmured. "But I haven't heard of him since…"

"Since," Thorin agreed. "But he has returned. And he has brought news."

Dis felt something heavy settle in her chest. "What news?"

Her brother smiled at last, but it did not lighten her heart. "Dis, _everything_ has changed."

_iii._

"Hey there," the girl said again, and Fili realized she was talking to him.

"Hey," he said, setting a glass on the scarred bar counter, and favoring her with a carefully charming smile. She was pretty—a bit heavy-handed on the eye makeup, maybe—and it had been a slow night. A little harmless flirting wouldn't go amiss, especially if she didn't find out that he'd been finishing a crossword puzzle under the bar just before she came along.

"Buy me a drink?" she said, toying with her phone and flicking her gaze towards him again.

He rested his elbows on the counter and lifted an eyebrow. It had been a right decision, this new button-up shirt, even if his brother had mocked it. Girls liked a dose of formality, Fili always thought. "I'm just the bartender, ma'am. That guy over there looks a bit tipsy. I'd bet he'll buy a round of shots for anyone."

"Well," she said, and leaned in, "_I'm_ not looking for just anyone."

"Oh?" He ran a hand through his hair.

"If you're going to make me buy a drink for myself, I'd better get a nice one, hadn't I?" she said flippantly, digging through her purse. "I'll have a rum and coke."

"That's a nice drink, to you?" he teased, but mixed it for her quickly. "Heavy or light on the lime?"

"Heavy," she said. "I'd raise my glass to you, but you don't have one of your own to match me."

"I can't exactly tend bar if I'm plastered, can I?"

She pursed her lips. "One pretty girl asks you to drink with her, and you think that will push you over the edge?"

"You're not the first pretty girl with that request," he retorted, but before he could follow up the quip with some sort of compliment, his phone buzzed. A text, from Kili.

_Can't get off early. You?_

He jumped two inches when her hand brushed along his arm. "When do you get off?"

"Now, actually," he said, and added quickly, before her face could brighten, "But I've got to dash."

She pouted. "Why?"

"It's my mum's birthday, and my brother's working late—" he stopped, wondering why he was bothering to explain it to her. "We don't want her to be on her own, you know?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Not really."

He shouldered on his leather jacket and stuffed the crossword in the pocket. "Right. Well, drink up. There's plenty of tipsy blokes to give you the time of day, if that's what you're into."

She rolled her eyes and moved off, and he blew out his breath, glad to have escaped. In truth, he still had twenty minutes left on his shift, but no one would miss him, and it was only his mother's birthday once a year. When Kili got home—at whatever hour he could—

Fili tucked his hands in his pockets and made his way quickly along the sidewalk, squinting under the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights. He was used to the city—he'd lived here all his life, or all of it that he could remember—but his familiarity didn't really make it any less dangerous.

And so he was unsurprised when a bulky figure materialized from one of the shadowy doorways, teeth flashing in something that wasn't really a smile.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Fili shot back, careful not to seem too unfriendly—though it was a very different greeting than he had given the girl at the bar.

"Got a smoke?"

"I'm all out." He lifted his hands.

"Then cover me. A couple of bills'll do it."

"I don't have any money," Fili said, with an easy shrug. He kept moving, distancing himself from the doorway as much as possible.

Sure enough, the guy lunged. Fili sidestepped and planted his feet, snapping open his twin switchblades in a practiced movement.

The man regained his balance, seemingly preparing for another attack, but he jerked to a halt at the sight of Fili's knives.

Fili nodded, a slightly feral grin creeping over his features. "Let it go, mate," he said softly, and twirled the blades for good measure.

The oaf slunk away.

_Kili will get a good laugh out of this,_ he thought, and turned the last corner.

The front room of the flat was dark, but there was a light in the kitchen. Fili kicked off his shoes on the mat, locked the door, and called out, "Mum?"

"I'm in here."

Dis was sitting at the table with her head in her hands, her thick dark hair unraveling from its braids and twists.

Fili was at her side in an instant. "Mum, what's wrong? What's happened?" Without a second thought, he took her hands in his. "I'm sorry—Kili couldn't get off early, and I had the long shift…"

His mother shook her head, smiling faintly. "Oh no, darling. It's nothing you or your brother did, it's just…" She stood up, seeming to rouse herself from a bad dream. "It's late—you're hungry—"

Gently but firmly, Fili guided her to her chair again and took the one beside it. "I'm not eating a bite until you've told me what the matter is," he said stubbornly. "Come on. You know you've never been able to hide secrets from me."

Dis's laugh became a sigh. She pressed his hand. "I know. I—I just hoped this day wouldn't come, that's all. And—oh, Fili. We're happy here, aren't we?"

"You and me and Kili," he agreed, nodding. "That's all we need." He studied her face, still beautiful, a little too thin. The worry lines around her eyes. "Mum—is this about Uncle Thorin?"

The tightening of her lips answered him. Dis took a deep breath before she spoke. "An—old friend of the family's visited him a few days ago, and he came today. He thinks he's found a way to…"

"To…what?" Fili prompted. Kili was generally the less patient, between the two of them, but he found himself becoming almost desperate over the prospect of not knowing.

"To win back what our family lost," she finished miserably, and drawing him closer, she buried her face in his shoulder.

Fili stroked her hair, his mind racing. He knew well enough their family's history—how many years ago, before he was born, the Durins had operated the foremost ore mining enterprise in the east, living in the grand estate of Erebor at the foot of a solitary peak called Lonely Mountain. Their well-stewarded business had provided employment and prosperity for the entire region, including the nearby city of Dale. Fili knew that his great-grandfather, Thror, had been a skilled businessman who trained his son, Thrain, and his grandson Thorin to understand the mining industry so well that they had amassed great wealth. But Thror had always been prone to paranoia, and even to greed, and bad things had followed—

Fili had grown up on his uncle's stories, taught to dream of lost wealth and security and above all, honor. Thorin visited as often as he could, but he was frequently away—searching for work, and always, always seeking justice.

_Something has changed_, he realized, and suddenly felt ten times more nervous than he had when he had faced the street thug earlier that night.

"Mum…what did Uncle want?"

Dis lifted her head and faced him. She had not cried—Dis _never_ cried—but her eyes were unusually bright. "He wants to go to Erebor," she whispered. "And he wants you and Kili to go with him."

_iv._

He spun the record in his hands, slipped it in place, and dropped the needle with a flourish. It was an art, really, being a DJ, even if it was exactly the sort of career that all his elders frowned upon.

Kili grinned and scanned the crowd, searching for someone to amuse himself by flirting with.

_Yeah, you're quite the lady's man,_ his brother's voice jeered in his head. _Just as long as you've got a room's length between you._

He made head-Fili shut up, caught the eye of a cute redhead, and winked. She blushed and turned to giggle something to her friends.

That was success, Kili decided, and he swayed back and forth to the pulsing rhythm of the music with no small satisfaction. Fili might have had the advantages due to an older brother, but he had better watch out.

For all these bold hopes, however, Kili's evening was uneventful—if a little off-schedule, for he had gotten halfway home before he remembered (with several heated words that would have appalled his mother) that it fell to _him_ to retrieve her presents.

"You're welcome, brother," he said aloud, and turned the car around forcefully.

In not so _very_ long, he was bounding up the steps of the apartment building and jamming the key into the lock with his usual imprecision. "Open up!" he shouted at last, because really—who could expect him to juggle two dozen roses, a bottle of wine, _and_ a jeweler's box all at once?

They took their time in coming, but the handle turned at last and his mother opened the door.

"Happy birthday, mum!" he announced, and promptly smothered her in a hug that was nearly the death of the flowers.

To his surprise, she almost clung to him.

"It's good, it's fine," he assured her quickly. "I…forgot stuff. That's why I'm late."

"It's not that," she said. "Thank you for all the lovely—it's just—why don't you come in and sit down?"

Bemused, he followed her. Fili was leaning against the counter, still wearing that new shirt that he'd been so bent on getting, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He nodded in greeting, but didn't smile like he always did.

Kili started to feel worried.

"You're all acting like someone died," he said. "Oh, God. Is it Myrtle?"

"Myrtle's fine," Fili said, pointing towards the corner where the fat orange cat was sleeping peacefully.

Kili sighed with relief. "Ok," he said, sitting on the edge of the table and swinging his legs. Usually Mum yelled at him for that, but she seemed preoccupied. "What's going on?"

Fili and Dis exchanged glances, and then Fili spoke. "Uncle Thorin visited Mum today."

Kili picked at a hole in his jeans. "What's he up to? Why didn't he stay?"

"It's…a long story," Fili said, with an attempt at a smile. It didn't look real, not to Kili. "Short version, he's organizing a meeting of some friends, and he wants us to come."

"Is it about Erebor?" Kili asked, excited. To Thorin and all the rest—and sometimes, even to Fili—Erebor was a serious subject, to be talked about in hushed voices. But Kili couldn't deny that there was something…well, sort of adventurous about the whole business. A stolen empire? Exile and estrangement? It was like a movie.

Not that he ever said so to Thorin.

"Yes," Dis replied after a moment. "It's about Erebor. Your uncle believes…he believes that he's found a way to get it back."

"And he wants _us_ to come with him?" Kili exclaimed, swinging to his feet, but a warning glance from his brother quelled his exuberance. "I mean—well, I mean, I'd like to help him. If I can."

Fili folded and unfolded his arms, like he always did when he was having some sort of internal argument. "I have to go," he said quietly. "I'm the oldest."

A pained expression crossed Dis's face, but she didn't argue.

Fili went on. "You don't have to go, Kee. You can stay with Mum, and—" His jaw was tense, set. He didn't like this anymore than he knew Kili would.

"But—" Kili began, but then stopped. How could he choose? The two halves of his world…and somehow he'd let himself think that they'd never pull him in opposite directions. Not that Fili was really doing the pulling—that was all Uncle Thorin. But Kili couldn't be angry with him, either, because Uncle Thorin was _everything._ A hero, and they all knew it.

He stared at the floor, but all the same, he could feel his mother's eyes on him. When he lifted his gaze to meet hers, she was…_crying._

_Mum. _Crying?

In an instant, he and Fili both had an arm around her. "Please," Kili pleaded. "What do you want us to do?"

Dis laughed through her tears. It was a strangely desperate sound. "What can I want? You're both going." She shook her head before they could interrupt. "You'll need each other, every step of the way. You do this together, or not at all."

_v._

A dab of saffron, a broad stroke of gray, and then a quick, methodical sketch of fine blue lines—

It was finished.

Bilbo Baggins set down his brush, wiped his hands on his smock, and frowned. It was a perfectly good picture—a winter sunrise over a field—but as he glanced about and saw fifteen other winter sunrises, as near to twins as could be, he felt as though his head would spin.

_A nice seedcake will just do you,_ he told himself, and headed off to his pantry.

Having just passed his thirty-fifth birthday, Bilbo was inclined to be pleasant, staid, and altogether comfortable—just the sort of life which he frequently assured himself he had always wanted. It was true that in his younger days, raised under the unconventional and affectionate parenting of an interior designer and a poet, he had been a little given to flights of imagination, even to bold ambitions.

He'd kept the interior decorating, but somewhere along the way, he'd lost the poetry.

_You've no need for poetry_, he thought, with an irritable shake of his head. _Heavens knows what's gotten you into this sentimental mood._

Nonetheless, he was in it, and that meant that his painting would not be uniform at all for the rest of the day. He had been working on this project for a week, and each day seemed to find him less motivated than the one before. There was nothing to explain it, in particular, although in the back of the spare bedroom closet, there was a shamefully large collection of the most elaborate and fantastical pictures—dragons and fairies and gems so bright that they seemed to have spirits of their own. His mother (the poet) had loved those paintings, had marveled over his talent and encouraged his inclinations. But over the years, Bilbo had learned that a quieter fare, for doctors and dentists to hang in their offices, was the sort of thing that made money.

And thanks to his father's affinity for a well-furnished home, Bilbo had come to be fond of making money.

Considered in that light, sentimental moods did him no good at all.

He skimmed a finger across the screen of his smartphone, hoping that the news of the world would sober him up appropriately. But before he could mire himself very deeply in the latest political shenanigans, the doorbell rang.

_Now who could that be?_ thought Bilbo, with some annoyance. His neighborhood—the nicer end of the Shire, which was in itself a rather nice little town—was a quiet one, and an unanticipated visitor was something of an anomaly.

He opened the door cautiously, and looked up (Mr. Baggins himself was of an abbreviated height) to meet a pair of remarkably bright eyes under an unfortunate gray fedora. The wearer of the fedora, and the owner of the bright eyes was a white-bearded man in a long, dusty coat. He had a carved walking stick in one hand, and an expression that suggested that he might just be as knowledgeable as he thought he was.

"Good morning!" Bilbo said, for nothing else sprung to mind.

The old man lifted a bushy eyebrow. "I suppose you hope it is," he said, with a knowing look. Before Bilbo could reply, he leaned forward almost conspiratorially. "I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure."

**A/N: Well? Good start? (I hope!)**


	2. bebother and confusticate these dwarves

**A/N: This goes for this chapter, the one before, and all those to follow—obviously any lifted dialogue, from book or movie, does not belong to me. I just like to work it in when I can.**

_"The world is not in your books and maps. It's out there…"_

_i._

"_You'd better try somewhere else…Bree, maybe?"_ the little man had said, obviously eager to be rid of his unwelcome visitor.

The little man. Bilbo Baggins was his name, as Gandalf well knew! It was, if he was quite frank with himself, a blow to his pride to be so little remembered. Had not his mother Bella Baggins, formerly Bella Took—the carefree poet who had traveled the world in her younger days—often invited Gandalf for tea? Had not little Bilbo, a curly-headed tot, begged for story after story?

Gandalf smiled at the memory and stared a little harder at the polished green door that had been shut so hastily a few moments ago. He was a man of many lives and names, but he did not forget his friends as easily as they forgot him.

And he had not forgotten Bilbo Baggins.

Chuckling to himself, he pulled out a glossy phone that was quite out of keeping with the rest of his threadbare attire, entered the address and sent a text to thirteen numbers.

"So it begins," he murmured to himself, and returned to his enormous, rusting white car, which had been idling along the road and garnering many a stare.

Once he had reached the highway, he rolled down the window (a laborious effort) and breathed in the sweet scent of new grass, which somehow managed to overarch the less pleasing odors of asphalt and exhaust and gasoline.

There was much that was ugly in this world, but much, Gandalf thought, that was still fair.

_And still the possibility of justice._

He rarely shied away from a dramatic turn of phrase, and so to call his latest endeavor of assistance a "quest" was by no means beyond the mark. Whatever Thorin Durin might think (and did), Gandalf remembered the tragedy of Erebor. And although his time had many claims upon it, he thought often of a family cast from their home, and of a city turned to ash.

_Soon, the story must be told again,_ he mused. Mr. Baggins would have to hear it in its entirety, and there were several additions that Gandalf knew must be made, no matter how painful they were.

_ii._

"So, Boggins. Uncle Thorin found a burglar named _Boggins?_"

Fili rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure it's _Baggins_, actually."

"Why do we need a burglar?"

"To burgle," Fili sniped back.

"Obviously."

"We need to get ahold of some…stuff. Uncle Thorin does, that is. We need someone who has the skills to do so—surreptitiously."

"And illegally, right?" Kili asked, relishing the prospect.

Fili nodded ruefully. "Probably. Although I swore to Mum I'd keep you out of jail."

"They couldn't arrest anyone so charming," Kili promised, waggling his eyebrows for effect. "Anyway, how did Uncle Thorin find him?"

"I don't think Uncle Thorin found him. Gandalf did."

"Right, Gandalf," said Kili, leaning back so that he could rest his feet on the dashboard. "The wandering wizard."

"He's not a wizard," Fili said, switching lanes.

"Then what is he?" Kili demanded. "Every time his name comes up, he's an expert in something else. He's probably got, like, fifty college degrees and a top security clearance."

"He was a friend of the family—before," Fili explained, draining the rest of his coffee. "I guess…he thinks there's another will that Thror left right before he died."

"Are we supposed to be sad about him dying?" Kili asked, running his hands through his tousled dark hair. "I mean, to be honest, he sounds like kind of a grade-A—"

"Don't," said Fili, warningly. "He's still family. And you'd better not let Uncle Thorin hear you insulting him."

Kili stuck out his tongue. "Fine. But doesn't Thorin hate him anyway? After all, he kicked them out…"

"You don't just _hate_ family," Fili said quietly. "We're loyal. We have to be."

Kili punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Ok, Ok, I get it. You're a fine Thorin-in-training. Now, if you wouldn't mind, _dear brother_, would you please go over the whole rotted history again?"

Fili's eyebrows shot up. "You're telling me we're halfway to this Bag-End, or whatever Mr. Baggins calls his home, and you have just now decided to forget everything you know?"

Kili flushed, and Fili patted his shoulder apologetically. "Alright. What's your question?"

"I just…" Kili spread his hands on his knees. "I want to make sure I've got all the facts straight, so when Uncle Thorin does one of his grand speeches, I don't royally screw up and ask something stupid."

"Oh, you'll do that anyway," Fili said teasingly, but he relented. "Fine. Where do you want me to start?"

"At the beginning?"

"_Seriously?_"

"Please?" Kili widened his eyes imploringly, and his brother jabbed a finger at him.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"The stupid puppy-dog eyes."

Kili grinned. "Glad to know they still work, at the ripe old age of twenty."

Fili punched him, and began.

_iii._

"Well, this is the address," Fili said, his eyebrows scrunching together.

"Dude, his lawn is _manicured_," Kili said, in a wondering tone.

Fili turned to look at him. "How do you even know that that's what it's called?"

"Sod off! I read."

"Garden magazines, apparently," Fili murmured under his breath, and took a sharp glance around the street. "Oh, good. It's Dwalin's truck. We must be at the right place."

Kili nudged him excitedly. "Smell that?"

"What, pesticide?"

"No, jackass. _Food. _Coming from Mr. Boggins's house."

Fili grinned broadly. "Well then. We have come to the right place."

They made their way to the front door—which was a rich shade of green, and rang the doorbell.

"Fili, do you think that handle is solid brass?"

"Shhh!"

The door was pulled open rather abruptly and they found themselves face to face with a short man who had a harried expression, short curly hair, and a patchwork robe.

Fili smiled politely, and Kili followed suit. "Fili and Kili Durin, at your service, Mr.—"

"—Boggins," Kili finished eagerly.

The man shook his head. "No, no. I'm sorry. There's a mistake—none of this was planned—"

Kili shot a glance at his brother. "Has it been cancelled?"

His brother shrugged, and signaled his ignorance with his eyebrows.

"Nothing's been cancelled," returned the flustered little man, and Kili laughed.

"Great! Well then."

They shouldered past him, and hung up their coats. There was a heavy biker jacket and a tweed blazer there already.

"Balin and Dwalin," Fili said, in a satisfied tone, but before he could say anymore, their host gave a startled yelp. Glancing down, Kili saw that several of Fili's knives—he always carried at least three or four, no matter how much Mum complained—had fallen out of his jacket pocket.

Fili smiled sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Nothing to see here."

Mr. Boggins, or Baggins, or whatever his name was—Kili was so sure it had been an _o_—looked a bit green.

"The others are in the…the, um, the kitchen," he said. "Why…why don't you come in."

They followed him down a very tidy and ornate hall, and Kili noticed with satisfaction that the pleasing, toothsome smells grew all the stronger. When the man pushed open the door, they saw that two others were already seated at the long table.

"Hello, lads!" cried the elder of the two—a man in a tweed vest and silk tie, with a carefully kept white beard.

"Mr. Balin," said Fili, shaking hands, and Kili nearly had the wind knocked out of him as the other man clapped him on the back.

"You two troublemakers seem to be in one piece," growled Dwalin. The man was as massive as Kili remembered, arms bulging under layers of leather, and the familiar blue lines of many tattoos on his hands and his enormous bald head.

"Fili nearly got a ticket for speeding, though," Kili divulged, digging into the bowl of chips that had been occupying Balin and Dwalin before their arrival. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the two men were, in fact, brothers, but their eating habits were much the same.

"I could have sweet-talked my way out of it," Fili assured them, and then they all fell to eating and trading stories.

Mr. B—as Kili had taken to mentally calling him, to avoid the confusion over his last name—stood to the side, eating nothing and looking very unsettled indeed.

"So, Mr.—um, sir," Kili began, hoping to draw him into conversation. "What is it you do for a living?"

"I'm a stock painter," the man said, in a voice that almost sounded wavery.

_Stock painter?_ Kili wasn't exactly sure what that entailed, but it didn't seem to have much in common with the finer points of burglary. "Cool. Well…it's a nice place, this. Did you do it yourself?"

The man's adam's apple bobbed. "My father did. I've kept it up."

"Really? That's nice," Kili said, and then added, "My father was a bartender."

"I'm sure."

Kili didn't know where to lead the conversation from there, so he turned back to the others. Dwalin thumped down his beer and rumbled, "Wasn't that the door?"

Mr. B's lips thinned to a line, but he scurried off.

"Poor little fellow," said Balin, compassionately.

"Damn," said Dwalin. "Who chose the little bugger? It certainly wasn't Thorin."

"Gandalf did," said Fili, and Dwalin swore again, more violently.

"I thought as much. He's always up to somethin', and it's rarely for anyone else's good."

"Don't speak ill of what you do not know," Balin chided. "And mind your language. We're guests."

Kili sipped at his beer and grinned. He'd missed this—it had been a long time, years, even, since there had been a gathering of their family and friends. Dwalin and Balin were cousins somewhere up the tree, and there were more to come—

Sure enough, Mr. B came puffing around the corner looking positively wrecked, followed by an impressive train of _eight _men.

It was a party after that, and one that Kili would remember! Here were old friends and a few new faces—Bofur, who ran his own toyshop, along with his brother Bombur, a chef who was enormously fat, and Bifur, their cousin, who was a kindly sort, even if his grisly old headwound from a gunfight had rendered him a bit on the odd side. The brothers Ri had arrived in their usual motley fashion—Dori, the eldest, was neat in simple clothes doubtless of his own making (he was a tailor), but his younger brother Nori, with his hair in a most disreputable state, was dressed far more rakishly. Nori had always been intriguing to Kili, all the more so because his mother had never wanted her boys to have anything to do with him. He had been in prison twice, for stealing, and Kili privately wondered why Uncle Thorin hadn't picked _him_ to do the burgling. Their youngest brother, Ori, who was only a few years older than Fili, smiled shyly. He was an elementary school teacher, and was wearing a remarkable knitted sweater-vest. Finally, there was Oin, a paramedic, and his brother Gloin, a banker. Kili did not know them particularly well, but he remembered playing some years ago with Gloin's son Gimli, who was stubborn and redheaded and several years younger than himself.

Just when they thought the train of men had ended, there was a figure that Kili might have known anywhere—Gandalf! With his hat under his arm, he was laughing to himself at some private joke that no doubt he considered above the rest of the company.

"My dear Bilbo," he said, to their host—"We are absolutely indebted. Absolutely. And now, my good sir, if you would just open up that fine pantry of yours and let these hungry men have their fill!"

Once again, Kili felt a twinge of pity for poor Bilbo, who looked as though his worst nightmare had come a-knocking on his shiny front door. Perhaps it had. But his consideration was short lived, for Bilbo's pantry turned out to be very spectacular indeed, and Kili wasted no time in piling a plate high with ham and cheese, pickles and little meat pies, grabbing two beers for his brother and himself, and tucking in between Nori and Ori.

"Brother, they've got ale!" Fili crowed in his ear, passing him a mug, and Kili laughed.

"Leave it to the bartender, I suppose!"

There was no doubt that Mum would have been horrified by their manners. Everyone seemed to disregard the laws of etiquette, especially Dwalin and Bombur and Nori, who started a food-fight when they were finishing up their third plate.

"This is going online," Ori giggled, holding up his phone, and Dori scolded him.

"Put it away! No videos!"

It took a long time for all of them to be stuffed (and certainly Bombur would have eaten more, if there was anything more to eat) but at last they were all groaning and patting their stomachs and taking a few more swigs of ale to round it all off.

"I feel sorry for whoever has to wash up," slurred Fili, who was far more drunk than Kili had seen him…well, _ever_, really.

"Hey—Fee—remember the plate game?"

"Yeah. Mum always thought we'd break 'em. Never did." Fili raised his glass in a salute, and tipped it back.

"Almost never did," Kili corrected. He felt certain that a cup or bowl had met a sorry fate at one time or another, but his mind felt a little hazy and he couldn't quite remember.

Fili just grinned, and grabbed a plate. "Catch," he said, and tossed it.

Poor Bilbo! Afterwards, Kili knew that they had been rather shamefully rude to the little man. But nothing (or almost nothing) was broken, and he would always remember it quite fondly…thirteen grown men chucking dishes and cutlery around like softballs, and to everyone's (somewhat inebriated) delight, Gandalf joined in, juggling six teacups with such ease and skill that Kili was more than ever convinced that there was something sorcerous about the man.

Bilbo was crumpled in the corner when they grew tired of the game, and so they did their best to show what remorse they could muster up by doing the washing up in a surprisingly orderly fashion.

"Never…tell…Mum…" Kili mumbled into Fili's shoulder, as they collapsed onto an embroidered sofa. They have might have fallen asleep then and there—but there was a resounding knock on the door, and Gandalf straightened up with a keen light in his eyes.

"He is here."

_iv._

He'd lost his way twice in this ridiculous little village, and hell, he'd never been good at directions—

But this was different, Thorin thought. It reminded him of the times _before_, when his grandfather's eyes had never gleamed mad at _him._

_'I can trust you, can't I? I can trust you, Thorin."_

_"Of course." _And he'd taken his grandfather's shaking hand in his. He was all of fifteen, sixteen. And he'd been _trusted._

That was before the monster.

So it was that he lost his way again, driving in circles past shiny little door after shiny little door.

"_Get a GPS,"_ Balin would say. As if Balin, twenty-five years his senior, had any right to be more tech-savvy than he was.

The sky was flecked with stars when he finally found 221 B Hobbiton Rd—a neat lawn before a neat house, with a neat door painted a rather startling shade of green.

Thorin's lip curled in derision—if Gandalf thought this was some sort of joke, he was much mistaken—and knocked.

The door swung open in silence, but they were all there—he saw Dwalin's scarred face crease in a rare smile. Balin was beaming. And there, too, were his nephews-both looking a bit bedraggled, but his heart was, as always, softened at the sight of them. They were good boys, and Fili, at least, did his best to preserve the honor of the family name. As for Kili—Thorin took in the overlong hair and unkempt stubble, the rock-band t-shirt, the tattered jeans…perhaps Kili needed a bit of polish, but Thorin had never been able to bring himself to be hard on the lad.

"Gandalf," he said—for it was easier to greet someone who would elicit no possible show of tenderness—"I thought you said this place was easy to find."

Gandalf harrumphed and did not make excuses. Rather, he drew forward a diminutive looking little man, who was wearing, of all things, _suspenders_.

"Thorin, this is the man—this is Bilbo Baggins."

With some difficulty, Thorin kept his jaw from dropping in an undignified fashion. This—_this_ little, pasty-faced fellow, with a manicured lawn and a green door…_this_ was Gandalf's great revelation?

"He looks more like a grocer than a burglar," he said scornfully, shrugging off his dark coat and handing it to Kili. He would have _words_ with Gandalf later, but for now, there was business to be discussed and this little man's fussy home would be as good a place as any.

The house was strangely lacking in food, but Bombur managed to scrounge up a bowl of soup for him. They crowded around the table, more hushed than he expected them to be, and waited.

He scanned the throng. Kili was resting his forehead on his hand.

"Are you ill?"

Kili jolted up, shaking his head. "No, sir."

Thorin lifted an eyebrow. "You haven't been drinking, have you?"

He did not miss the glance exchanged by his nephews.

"Just a little, sir," Fili said, not meeting his gaze.

"Watch it," Thorin said warningly. He glanced up at Gandalf. "Well? The night is getting on. Are you ready to share your tales?"

Gandalf puffed at his pipe. "You first."

"Of course." Thorin pushed away his bowl. "I am grateful for all who have come."

"What of Dain?" Dwalin asked, and Thorin frowned. Their cousin Dain Ironfoot, who, after the loss of Erebor, had set up rather prosperously in the Iron Hills, had not seen the need to reclaim their former home—at least not yet.

"Dain will not come," he said heavily. "But let that not dampen our spirits. I see before me stouthearted men, who will seize this moment to retake what was stolen from us. It is not only my birthright, my friends. Erebor belongs to all of us, and I would see those days again."

"Excuse me," piped up Mr. Baggins suddenly—and he looked quite nervous, but Thorin allowed him a little credit for interrupting—"What was stolen? And what is Erebor? I don't know anything about what is going on, and since this is—well, not to put too fine a point on it, but this is my house. And I'd like to know all about it in plain terms from start to finish."

Many eyebrows were raised at that, but Gandalf chuckled and lowered his pipe. "Mr. Baggins is quite right. He deserves a full account."

Thorin inhaled. "Well, then, Mr. Baggins. Sit down, if you can find another chair, and I shall tell you."

When the man had complied, he continued.

"My grandfather Thror owned the largest ore mining company in this country. My father, Thrain, and I were taught his business well. I don't think it too far to say that we framed a large part of the eastern society, at least so far as to the city of Dale, and others who lived close by. My grandfather ran a clean mine—safe, and prosperous. There was a time when many would have called him a good man."

He paused at that, for it had been long since he spoke openly of the sorry history, and Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, Shire, did not seem a very worthy audience. But Thorin knew his duty—which in this case, was to tell a grand tale—and he stuck by it.

"My grandfather was always a cautious man—some might say too cautious. He was always in fear that someone would take advantage of him, and over the years, he became more and more…tight-fisted. My father and I tried to reason with him, though I was not so very old at the time. Yet for all his—instabilities, I think things might have been managed, had it not been for the coming of Smaug."

There was a hush, and Thorin let it pass for a moment. There were pictures in his mind that he would rather forget—a deep, smooth, heavy voice, the whisper of scaled leather shoes in the long halls of his home, eyes that were strangely gold and green. "Smaug met my grandfather in the role of advisor. Little by little, his whisperings acted upon my grandfather's already uneasy mind. Smaug convinced him that my father and I wanted to oust him from the business, that we were acting against him. And so my grandfather cast us all out. His son, his grandchildren, and any of his old friends, without a penny to our names. That was twenty-seven years ago."

"And is Smaug there still?" Bilbo asked, or rather squeaked.

"The thrice-cursed filth still manages our enterprise," Thorin said, through gritted teeth. "My grandfather has led for years in name only, a puppet, controlled by the monster's whims. The business's good name has long been lost—they cared nothing for safety, or about justice for workers. Indeed, thanks to Smaug's reckless management, a fire broke out in the lower end of the mines, directly under the city of Dale. The city was destroyed."

Bilbo's brow furrowed. "But why has no one stopped him?"

"He is a very powerful man," Thorin said, not trying to stem the bitterness in his tone. "He has many connections, in the mining business, and in the government. No one dares to question him, and until now there has been little grounds for legal claim against him, for he is clever. I said _until now_, for the reason we are here is because something has come to light."

The tension in the room could nearly be tasted.

Thorin raised a hand, forestalling any other questions. "Thror has died, if you have not heard. But this is the part of the tale that Gandalf must tell. My father, Thrain, has been missing for almost two decades. But now Gandalf says he has been found, and that he passed to me a map and key, by which to uncover a will that my grandfather left for us, changing the will of his heart in his final days. I do not need to tell you how important is that Smaug never lay his hands upon that will. But first I would hear word of my father, if Gandalf deems it to be—the _right time_." Here he paused, satisfied with the degree of sarcasm he had infused into his words.

Gandalf shot him a sharp look. "Well, well, I take your meaning quite clearly, Thorin. But I did not keep the sad history of Thrain to myself out of spite." He scanned the assembled company before going on. "Thrain hoped to unseat Smaug from Erebor by political pressure. He lobbied at every congress he could find, and that is how he was lost. For there are darker things in the governance of this country than I would wish to say, and I fear he met a sad fate in Dol Gulder, which has always been a nasty district. I thought him dead—I swear to you that I did—but a short time ago I received word that he was not."

Thorin looked down and realized that his hands were clenched so tightly the knuckles had whitened. He forced his fingers to relax.

"When I saw Thrain again, he was nearly gone," said Gandalf, and his voice was gentle. "He was—wasted away, on drugs of some sort. He didn't speak much of that. But he told me that he had heard from his father, and that Thror wanted to see him again. 'I cannot,' he told me. 'I am ashamed of what I have become.' I tried to reason with him, but he told me only that Thror, too, was dying. 'We pass from this world in failure,' he told me, and said that he wished it to be that his son not follow the same fate. He gave me the map and key, and told me that your grandfather had made another will, and hidden it in the Arkenstone."

A murmur ran round the table. "The Arkenstone!" cried Balin. "But no one has ever seen it!"

"That is why we have the map," Gandalf replied. "Though I have not the skill to read it in its completeness. But it is a start."

Thorin nodded, finding his voice with difficulty. "It is." He forced himself to stand, to be calm and levelheaded. "It is my plan, for myself and any of you that will follow me—" he saw Dwalin nod determinedly, and Fili and Kili were clearly eager to speak—"To travel to Erebor, in as secret a way as we can, and to retrieve the Arkenstone. Then we shall destroy the monster and his legacy, and be restored to what is ours."

They were on their feet—cheering, swearing, thumping their fists. It warmed him, somehow, as though he were not a man with nothing but a lonely name and a long memory.

Yet once again, Mr. Baggins interjected. "I beg your pardon," he shouted over the din, "But where do _I _come in to all of this?"

"Haven't you heard?" demanded Thorin, "All that we have spoken of? _Secret_ I said—we need someone to retrieve the Arkenstone, and Gandalf told me that _you_ were the man for the job. But perhaps I have been misinformed."

To his surprise, Mr. Baggins seemed vexed by that, jumping up from his place. "Misinformed?" he said, almost boldly. "I may be a painter, sir, but I'm not a fool. I think the whole lot of you are quite high-handed, coming in here with your talk of mining and legal intrigue and—and—I've half a mind to just come along and show you what I can do, if only to—" They were all listening, by now, but Mr. Baggins seemed quite overcome. He clutched the back of a chair and went very pale.

"I think you'd better lie down," Gandalf said, steering him to a sofa, and the little man made no objection.

Gandalf smiled apologetically when he returned. "Excitable little fellow," he said. "A bit odd, at times, but as fierce as a dragon in a pinch."

Thorin lit a cigarette and shook his head. "We'll see about that."

_v._

Bilbo woke into the pale, indifferent sunlight of mid-morning, and felt as though someone had pummeled his head all night long. He checked his phone, which was lying under the couch, of all places—and saw that it was past ten o'clock. Later than he ever slept, practically, and he still had so much painting to do!

It took quite a few rounds about his unusually scrambled house, wandering like a ghost, to remember what had happened the evening before. After his near fainting spell, the strange men had continued talking among themselves…and at one point, he was even sure he'd heard them singing. It was a mysterious, old sort of song, and it had colored his dreams oddly.

_I could swear I dreamed of dragons,_ he thought, and shook his head as hard as he could.

Other than the untidiness, there was no evidence of the curious party, and Bilbo could almost have convinced himself that it, too had been a bad dream—but there was a stack of paper on the dining room table that had not been there before.

He approached it as carefully as if it were liable to jump up and bite him. It was very innocuous, to all appearances—some sort of legal documentation.

_A contract,_ he realized, and felt both cold and hot at the same time.

He scanned it as calmly as he could—it was for him, without a doubt…it outlined his role and responsibilities in thinly veiled and rather disturbing terms, leading him to believe that this was a very sketchy and quite possibly dangerous business altogether. One passage in particular was worrisome—

"Weaponry not provided. Although the Adventure is, by its nature a stealthy undertaking, combat or self-defense is not unforeseeable, and indeed may become necessary, well-advised, important, imperative or inescapable. Accordingly, Burglar should arm himself as best befits his stature, ability, ferocity, bravery, timidity, conviction and determination."

Especially when paired with the section on _funeral arrangements_, Bilbo thought this was enough to dissuade him from reading any further, but somehow, he found himself reading all the way to the bottom of the page.

And there, it was signed—

_Thorin Durin (son of Thrain)_.

Balin had witnessed it—Bilbo recalled that he was the white-haired man in tweed, who had seemed quite friendly—and there was a spot beneath, blank, for the signature of the burglar.

_That's me,_ he thought, and felt as though he might choke.

He wandered his halls some more after that, and thought of his father, and his work, and the prospect of being quite comfortable and calm and respectable until the end of his days.

And he thought of his mother, her laughter and her poetry, of the paintings tucked away in the spare room—and Bilbo Baggins thought suddenly that there wasn't a choice, not really.

Five minutes later, he was running down the walk to his hybrid car, with the contract in his hand, and his heart beating high and quick for what felt like the first time in his life.

**A/N: Thanks ever so much to all who have reviewed! Points for catching the ****_Sherlock _****reference in this chapter. Also, credit for the text of Bilbo's contract goes to hole-intheground . com's lovely PDF.**


	3. some folk, we never forgive

**A/N: Back in school, so I'm quite busy-but i hope to keep up! Thanks for the reviews, favorites, follows, etc. :)**

**Note: canon character death in a flashback here.**

_"Home is behind, the world ahead."_

_i._

Ori wondered again if he'd made a mistake. Some of them might feel at home in this greasy little diner, chugging orange juice and coffee and eating far too many sausages, but he just—couldn't.

_Elementary school teacher_, Dori always said, with such pride.

It wasn't so, not really. He was just a substitute, lowly and fretful, fresh out of college. He would have liked to say, '_No, I can't help win back a place I don't remember—I've got to teach—" _but the truth was, he hadn't been doing anything these days. Just home scribbling, and Lord knew Dori didn't approve of that.

_"A writer?"_ he'd say, gray-streaked brows drawing together. "_Honest work, Ori. That's what you need."_

And Ori would blush and look away, shove his manuscripts under his bed and put on a suit jacket, trying to look like a man.

Nori understood. But then, that was always the trouble. Nori understood what he longed to be—but Nori wasn't someone to take advice from, as Ori well knew. Dori looked after him—_them_—and Dori knew what was best.

It made him feel guilty, sometimes, for loving Nori more.

He glanced across the cracked, laminated diner table-top at his irrepressible brother, whose thin face was lighted up with a far too bright smile.

"C'mon lads," Nori was saying, "Let's be men. How much will you lay down?"

_Betting?_ Of course. Nothing else would etch such a disapproving frown on Dori's features, Ori knew. He craned his neck a little, all the same, trying to see and hear what was going on.

It was, it seemed, about the burglar…if Mr. Baggins, their unwilling host of the evening before, could so be called. They were breakfasting late at this rundown diner to give Mr. Baggins the courtesy of a second chance, but judging from the set of Thorin's jaw, the second chance was waning.

_I don't blame him, not too much_, Ori thought. Mr. Baggins's house had been tidy and pleasant (_before we trashed it, _he added, with a mental grimace), and Ori would have been surprised indeed (and alright, perhaps a bit impressed) if the man had been willing to sacrifice so much for people he'd never met, for an estate he had no claim to.

_Well, he'd have claim to a fourteenth of profit,_ Ori reminded himself—but there was a slim chance of anyone profiting at all, and everyone knew it.

It had been made rather abundantly clear the night before that Thorin Durin—or Thorin Oakenshield, as he was choosing to call himself, so as not to call attention to the family name—was bent upon a carefully orchestrated infiltration of an estate which, Ori had come to understand, was overseen by a ruthless, maniacal criminal.

_"Dangerous?" _Thorin had said, at some point in the evening. _"Indeed it is. But I chose you men for a reason. You have the skills and knowledge that we need for even the possibility of success."_

It had sounded very grand and daring then, but this morning, picking at a plate of unappetizing scrambled eggs, Ori wasn't so enthused. What, exactly, did he have to offer? The more he thought about it, it seemed far likelier that Nori's…talents…were the desired ones, that Dori was coming along to keep an eye on him, and that Ori was tagging along because that was what he always did.

_Yeah. The stuff of legends._ Ori pushed his plate away.

"Fifty," said Kili, slapping another bill on the table.

"Alright, alright," Fili tugged at his shoulder. "I didn't say we had _that_ much faith in him."

Nori grinned broadly. "Let him prove himself, Fili. He clearly thinks well of the little man."

"That's enough," came Thorin's growl from the other end of the table, where he was devouring a steady stream of ham and fried eggs. Six so far, if Ori had counted correctly. "I'll not have the pair of you wasting your cash over a fool—"

He was interrupted by the door jingling open. Every head turned sharply at the small figure puffing and panting in the doorway, as though he was much excited, with a stack of papers in his hands.

"I had a devil of a time finding you all," said Bilbo Baggins, "Thank heavens one of you mentioned this place last night, and I just happened to remember—but it doesn't matter. I'm in. I'm coming, and—and all the paperwork's in order."

Balin's chair legs scraped across the tiled floor as he rose, a warm smile on his wrinkled face. "Well now," he said, taking the papers from Bilbo, "It certainly seems to be all here." He tipped a glance at Thorin, who arched an eyebrow in what was apparently agreement. "Welcome to the company, Mr. Baggins."

"Pay up," Kili hissed, in the ensuing pause, and Ori heard Nori swear good-naturedly, handing over a stack of bills.

Gandalf stood up from his chair in the corner and clasped his hands together with a positively beneficent smile. "I think my judgment may be thought better of in future," he suggested airily, and glanced out the dingy window. "Shall we be on our way?"

"Quite," said Bilbo, mirroring his smile, and he put one hand in his pocket. Then his face changed suddenly, and he gasped. 'Oh, no—nevermind. Nevermind. None of this can go on at all!"

Gandalf's good humor faded into concern. "Why, my good fellow, what is it?"

"I forgot my phone!" Bilbo cried, suddenly very pale.

"Oh, for the love of—" Dwalin snorted, ending the phrase in something that Ori wouldn't have written into his manuscript, even on a very bad day.

But Gandalf only laughed. "Come now, Mr. Baggins," he said. "It will be far better for our little expedition if you remain off the grid. Your phone will keep."

Bilbo didn't argue, but he still looked rather consternated. Ori felt a stab of sympathy for him, and a sudden unexpected relief. _I'm not the only one, _he thought, and followed his brothers almost happily out the door.

_ii._

The road went on for what felt like forever, and Fili thought he could have tolerated it better had it not been for his brother's fidgeting.

"I'm so hungry," Kili sighed, rooting through their packs for something edible. "And every restaurant we pass is just _mocking_ me."

"You know why we can't stop," Fili reminded him. They were entering the city of Trollshaws (weird, said Kili, and Fili was inclined to agree), even though "city" seemed a bit of a stretch. "We've got about ten cars in this train, and Thorin will have my head if I get us separated."

"Adventurers aren't supposed to be hungry," Kili said dramatically, slumping against the window.

Fili snorted. "Yes, they are. What have you been smoking? Every single story, it's all, 'tighten your belts,' not, 'grab a burger.'"

Kili scrunched his eyes shut. "No! Don't even _mention_ burgers!"

"There's some beef jerky in the left-hand pocket of my bag," Fili said, after a moment. "Just—don't eat all of it."

"You're the best," Kili mumbled, through a mouthful.

"I know." Fili grinned, then grew serious. "Alright, but really—ground rules."

"No rules! We're grown-ups."

"The fact that you say 'grown-up' is a little…I don't know, revelatory?"

"Fine. We're _adults_," Kili retorted, rolling his eyes.

"You're not even twenty-one," Fili pointed out, a trifle severely. "Which means, first of all, lay off the alcohol a bit."

"I work at a club! C'mon!"

"Only because we sort of…doctored your ID," Fili said. "Don't know how exactly we got Mum to agree to that."

"I…don't think she ever did. She thinks they made an exception for me." Kili smirked. "I keep to myself, I swear. I'm—" He huffed out a breath. "You're not exactly one to point fingers. You and the whole plate game last night—"

His brother was daring him, and Fili knew it—and he knew, too, that he ought to stay grim and solemn but he'd never been very good at that, not with Kili. "Alright, that was fun," he conceded. "But we're on our way now, and I don't know what…" He paused, fingers drumming on the wheel. Ahead of them, Dwalin's truck was sputtering slower. Traffic was congested.

"Don't know what?" Kili asked, his voice quiet.

Fili chewed his lip, a sigh escaping against his will. "Much of anything, really," he said. "I mean, look—we've just left Mum on her own, quit our jobs—"

"—We'll find new ones—"

Kili was just trying to be comforting, but Fili still felt tense. "Yeah, if we make it back."

Kili's eyes widened with horror. Sometimes he still looked more like twelve than twenty, stubble notwithstanding. "You think we're going to get killed, or something?"

Fili laughed, because he'd cast a shadow over the mood—and that meant it was his job to lighten it. "I'm just being an idiot. Pay me no mind."

"I never do," Kili quipped, though they both knew it wasn't true. "Hey, you watching the road or what? Dwalin's turning."

"It's past six o'clock," Fili remarked, with a glance at the clock. "Maybe Uncle's finally had a softening of heart."

"_Dinner_," Kili murmured, savoring the word. He squinted ahead, trying to see Thorin's dark car at the head of the line. "Please, Thorin."

The phone rang, and they both yelped.

"Are you psychic?" Fili demanded, and then gestured impatiently. "Go on, pick it up!"

Kili cleared his throat. "Uncle Thorin! Hi. Yes. It's me. Me as in Kili. Anyway, yeah. We see it. We see the hotel up ahead, right Fee? I mean, you see it, right? 'Cause I see it. Ok, Ok, yes. We both see it. We're going there. Got it. Yes, sir. Bye."

Fili bit back a smile. "You're such a dork."

"He's so much scarier on the phone than he is in real life," Kili said seriously. "Look! Up there! Turn!"

"I've got it," Fili growled. "Damn, you're worse than _Dori_."

Fili thought he'd seen all the crappiest possible hotels, living in the seedier half of Ered Luin—which was, by all accounts, a pretty dilapidated region. But this?

"I don't think this is a hotel," Kili said, in a hushed tone. "More like…a cockroach emporium."

Fili followed Dwalin into what was apparently the yawning depths of a parking garage. "Well, I'm sure Thorin has his reasons."

What those reasons were, however, was not made apparent. Thorin gathered the company and announced his intention to rent as few rooms as possible. "No complaints," he added, as some of the men began to grumble. "Consider this a test. There'll be harsher times ahead."

"Now, now," Gandalf interjected. "Isn't this a tad—excessive? We'll be only a little poorer, and far more comfortable, if we go on a few miles further and find some place that doesn't reek of decay and petty crime!"

Thorin's brow darkened, and Fili grimaced. _Great._ Calling Thorin out on—well, anything—was a risky business, but it was an _especially_ bad idea when he was hungry, tired, in front of a large number of people…or, as in this case, all three.

"I've made my decision," Thorin said stonily. "Any of those too _soft_ for such conditions are welcome to make their own way."

Gandalf's eyes flashed. "Don't try to shame me by your lofty insults," he snapped. "I'll not be a fool for any man's pride other than my own." With that, he returned to his hulking white car, started it, and drove away.

There was a heavy silence. Kili's eyes darted back and forth between his brother and his uncle, but Fili could think of no comfort to offer him. He thought of home, and Mum—he'd be working the late shift, tonight, so he'd be in the kitchen now, scarfing down something to eat—and his insides felt all knotted up.

"Any more arguments?" challenged Thorin, and when no one answered, he turned his back and started up the cement steps to the lobby.

"What just happened?" Fili heard the hushed, but clearly indignant tone of Mr. Baggins. He'd almost forgotten about the little man during his ride with Kili.

He shrugged, since nobody else seemed prepared to answer Bilbo's question. "It isn't wise to cross my uncle," he said, very quietly indeed.

One of Mr. Baggins's eyebrows lifted in a skeptical expression. "I suppose it isn't really my place," he replied, "But I can't help but think that if people are going to be stuffy and stubborn about everything, at this early stage, we're going to make a lot more trouble than we need to."

"Tell that to Thorin," Kili suggested, with a wry grin, and Mr. Baggins _did_ pale a bit at that.

"I just hope Gandalf comes back," he muttered.

Bofur clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't you worry, lad. Gandalf's in and out of every journey but his own. He'll turn up, right as rain." He bobbed his head, emphasizing the point, and scratched under the flopping knitted hat that Fili thought he'd never seen him without.

Bilbo didn't look particularly relieved.

The hotel did not exceed their expectations. The carpet was tattered and grimy; the walls stained and peeling.

Kili nudged Fili. "There's a dead cockroach on the windowsill," he said mournfully.

Thorin rented out a suite, deeming it sufficient to fit them all. There were several mumbled oaths and a handful of glares, but by and large they remained sufficiently cowed.

Fili almost wished that someone _had_ spoken up, other than Gandalf, though he didn't think it would have done much good. He settled gingerly on the edge of a chipped desk, and Kili joined him.

Thorin lit up a cigarette, after verifying that the smoke alarm was, indeed, broken.

"Those things'll kill you," Balin said, and Thorin rolled his shoulders in something almost too dismissive to be a shrug.

"I won't live long enough for that," he returned, which made Mr. Baggins's eyebrows go up again.

Fili wondered if he had more spirit than he'd originally thought.

"Uncle's being so _dramatic_ tonight," Kili hissed in his ear, and Fili elbowed him gently.

"_Please,_ don't make it worse."

Kili frowned. "I never make it worse!"

Bombur was in charge of the food, and although the sandwiches he had packed were a bit crushed, they were entirely palatable.

"Have my second half," Fili offered. "I'm not that hungry." But Kili narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not a kid anymore. I know you're lying." He smiled suddenly. "Look, you don't have to worry about me. I can look after myself."

Fili ate the sandwich, but he shook his head. "Well, if you can—then what am I supposed to do?"

Kili chuckled. "Guess you'll figure that out over this adventure, brother."

They were near the window, and Bilbo had gravitated towards them. Fili figured that, since they were the youngest, they probably looked the least intimidating. Which, yeah, was a bit of a blow to his pride, but poor Mr. Baggins needed someone to talk to.

"I keep hearing noises," he confessed, peering out the window. "Footsteps, and whistles, and—I suppose it's because I haven't lived in a city before. Everything seems quite threatening."

Kili looked very grave—which Fili knew was a bad sign. "Aye, you're not wrong," his irrepressible younger brother was saying. "Fili and I noticed it too. No doubt about it, we're being followed."

"Assassins, probably," Fili added, because—well, why not? And he'd never been able to resist a good joke, much more than Kili could.

"Followed? _Assassins?_" Mr. Baggins squawked, much louder than they would have liked him to.

Thorin was on his feet. "What did you say?"

Kili flushed and then went pale. Fili had no doubt that his own face looked much the same. _Oh, we're screwed,_ he thought, and cursed himself for being an idiot, even for a second.

Thorin was on them, all eyebrows and shoulders and steely gaze. "What is going on?"

Kili laced his fingers together. "It was…a joke," he said. "We…um…"

"We're sorry," Fili finished, avoiding meeting anyone's gaze—for the entire company now seemed to be listening.

Thorin pointed fiercely at them. "_You"—_he pointed at Kili—"I will send home, if I have to. And _you—_" Fili forced himself not to flinch—"are supposed to keep him in check. Do you understand?"

They nodded. Fili didn't even dare to breathe.

Thorin was, apparently, satisfied, and stalked away, out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Kili grated his fingernails across his knuckles. He looked miserable.

_My fault,_ Fili told himself. _This is my fault._

"Don't mind him, lads," said Balin, in a kindly tone. "Thorin is—on edge."

Kili's hands moved choppily, as they did when he was upset. "We were _kidding._ _God_."

Balin patted his arm. "I suppose I had better explain," he said, taking a seat in a rickety chair. "Not all of you are aware—Smaug is not the only enemy we may face on this journey."

There was a stillness in the room.

Balin went on, "I know that some of us were there—Dwalin and myself, and of course, Thorin—at Azanulbizar—"

_iii._

_They are cold, and hungry, but Thrain keeps pushing onwards. _

_"He didn't take everything," he keeps muttering. "We still have Azanulbizar…we hold it in my name, not his. He didn't take everything. He couldn't."_

_"Is it another mine?" Frerin asks, pushing his dirty hair away from his face._

_Thorin nods tightly in answer to his brother's question. "Yes. Smaller. But it's ours."_

_It isn't when they get there. There are strange men at the front gate, a new name on the sign._

_AZOG, Inc._

_"There has been a mistake," cries Thrain, but the men's faces are hard._

_"You are trespassing."_

_"Surely not," says another voice, from inside the offices, and every head turns at his entrance._

_He is tall, and his skin is sickly pale—but he is pure muscle, thick and bulky under his expensive suit. His teeth gleam in a smile._

_"I am Azog," he says. "The state transferred this land to my corporation." He rests a heavy hand on Thrain's shoulder before he can protest. "But please, come in. Let me show you our progress, and we can talk. I know that you have fallen on hard times."_

_"How do you know?" Thrain is skeptical, but Azog's smile only widens._

_"Too many teeth," Frerin whispers in Thorin's ear, and Thorin hushes him. Frerin is only sixteen, and often speaks before he thinks._

_"Word travels fast," Azog says. "Come! Let us see the mines."_

_He is all silk and smooth promises, but Thorin finds it harder and harder to breathe as they descend into the mineshaft. _

_"Is this—safe?" Thrain asks, eyeing the cruel-looking contraptions, the red-eyed workers._

_"It is efficient," Azog says. He has not stopped smiling. _

_Too many teeth._

_Thorin, at least, is not ready when it comes. They are on the lift—Thrain and Thorin and Frerin, and then Azog steps off, and laughs—and he strikes something, there is a snap, and they fall—_

_They plummet into darkness, and Thorin hears Frerin cry out, but he cannot _see—_there is rock falling, and so much dust—and then he cannot hear Frerin anymore._

_(But Azog is still laughing)._

_The dust settles, and Thorin chokes. And then his throat is hoarse with shouting, and pleading, because Frerin is still and quiet, and—_

_Frerin is dead._

_Thorin curses and shouts and sobs, and he cradles his brother's body as though he can put him back together. _

_He might have stayed there forever, but Thrain, even reeling under the grief of his son's death, has thoughts of his men—the thirty that have stayed above. He hears the screams, and the gunshots, and Azog is _still laughing—

_Thorin lays his brother down, kisses his forehead, lets him go._

_There is an abandoned pickaxe on the lift. Thorin clenches the sturdy oak handle in his fist, then tucks it under his arm, and climbs._

_The craggy pits of the mine are cruel to his skin, but he grits his teeth and thinks of Frerin. Hand over hand, with his father behind him—they are silent, and steady, and if there is one blessing, it is that it is too dark for Azog to see them coming. _

_There are bodies all about them. Thorin sees old Fundin, the father of Balin and Dwalin—but thankfully, he sees that his two friends still live, that Dwalin is roaring and swearing and has somehow managed to get his hands on a gun. _

_"Where is your brother, boy?" drawls a sick, silken voice. Thorin turns, meeting pale blue, red-rimmed eyes. He has only a pickaxe, and Azog has a bowie knife, glinting fiercely in what little light there is._

_"You're too good for shooting," Azog says, and charges. The blade slashes Thorin's arm, but he rolls out of the way, just in time—and dangerously close to the edge._

_Perhaps, he thinks, he will die here too. Perhaps he won't have to leave without Frerin after all._

_But Frerin would not want that._

_So Thorin shouts his brother's name, and swings the pickaxe wide—and the handle, firm oak, meets the edge of Azog's knife, catching it deep in the grain. Azog cannot get it loose. Thorin twists, as hard as he can—harder—and there is a snap._

_The man yowls in pain, his arm hanging limp and crooked. He stumbles back—too close to the edge—and falls, clawing at air. _

_Thorin should look down, to see that he is dead—but that would mean looking at Frerin. He can't do that. _

_He turns, and the cavern is silent. Only two of Azog's men remain standing, and Dwalin has a handgun to both their heads. _

_Thorin meets his father's gaze. Thrain's eyes are filled with tears, but he nods. And Thorin wraps his hand still tighter around the handle of the pickaxe, trying to remember what his brother looked like when he was alive._

Balin's voice trembled a bit as he ended the story, and Thorin was glad to be on the other side of the door.

"Did they take back the mine after that?" someone asked. It sounded like Ori.

"No," Balin answered. "Azog's filth was there for a reason. Who knows if it was Smaug, or someone else—there are many against us in this world. There were more of the same to reinforce it, and Thrain would not take it by force, chancing the loss of more men. He chose, as Gandalf mentioned, to seek recourse with politicians." Thorin heard the old man sigh. "Much good that did."

"But surely, the law…" came another voice. It was Baggins, Thorin was sure of it. "Or the police. _Someone_ must have done something!"

"We do not hold much stock in lawyers, or any other advocates of that sort," Balin said. "They have failed us before, and we do not trust them. Thrain was the last to try."

"And what of Azog?" Mr. Baggins again. Thorin opened the door.

"He is dead," he said flatly. "No doubt his corpse still rots in those caverns." He ignored the flicker of worry in Balin's gaze. "But," he added, "His underlings hold a powerful grudge against us. If we are not careful, we may encounter them."

He returned to his seat by one of the beds, and looked about. The story was over, but every man in the room was watching him with something like respect in their eyes. It was a strange feeling, and not altogether unwelcome. Most remembered Erebor, but few remembered Azanulbizar. They knew him better now, admired him more. But Thorin would not let himself smile.

"If you have all finished eating," he said, "We should turn in soon. Fili, Kili—go down to the garage and make sure all the cars are locked. Stick together." Their heads jerked up as he said their names, and he felt a twinge of something like affection. He _had_ been hard on them—but it was necessary. He thought of Frerin, Frerin, who haunted his dreams—and prayed to any God there was that his nephews not suffer the same fate.

_iv._

"Come with us, Mr. Baggins," said the young, dark-haired one—Kili? Yes, Kili. Bilbo wondered if they were showing him kindness out of guilt over their uncle's remonstrations, and he hoped not. They _had_ given him quite a scare, but he knew that they had only been teasing.

_And if I am to be petty over every such trick and trifle, _he thought, _they shall all end up despising me—and I will despise myself. They meant no harm._

To show his goodwill, he followed them out of the room and down the long, dimly-lit hall.

The brothers were unusually silent. Kili kept looking at Fili whenever he thought his older brother wasn't looking, and Fili at Kili, and finally Bilbo felt that he should say something.

"Don't be glum," he began tentatively, and they both turned to look at him, eyebrows lifted. "I just—" He swallowed. "Your uncle was overreacting. That's all."

Fili's mouth twitched, but whether it was towards a smile or a frown, Bilbo could not be sure. "We should have known better, Mr. Baggins. We're not children."

"Then call me Bilbo," he said, glad to turn the subject. "I'm not so much older than you."

Kili stifled a laugh. "If you say so."

Bilbo puffed up a bit at that as Fili pushed open the door of the parking garage. "Excuse me—I'm only _just_ thirty-five," he argued, but it didn't seem to convince them much.

One or the other was about to make some sort of sly remark, when they both stopped short. Then Fili swore, briefly and fluently.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, almost in a whisper. The garage seemed deserted but for their presence, but he felt the need to be quiet.

Fili tangled his hands in his hair. "Kili, did you—"

Kili's face was paper-white. "I counted them. There's two missing."

Bilbo's heart leapt suddenly to his throat. "Two _cars_ missing?"

They nodded, twin expressions of worry. "And one of them is Uncle Thorin's," Kili added, in an anguished tone. "We are _so_ dead."

"Why is it your fault?"

Fili shrugged. "Kill the messenger?"

Kili jammed his hands in his pockets. "He told us to check if they were locked."

"Well, unless the keys were in them," Bilbo pointed out, "I don't see how—"

"That's not going to stop a good car thief," Fili countered, shaking his head. "They'll just hotwire it."

"What do we do?" Kili asked.

"Wait," Bilbo said. "Did you hear that?"

The Durin brothers nodded. "They're coming back."

"Then they're going to steal another car!" Bilbo hissed. "We've got to stop them!"

"Got any ideas?" Kili demanded. "Come on, you're a burglar! What would you do?"

Bilbo just stared at him. Did they _really_ think—He nearly gave up then and there, but something (almost poetic) woke up in him and he thought that he might as well stand his ground here, in the saddest hotel he had ever been unfortunate enough to encounter. "Go get Thorin, and the others," he whispered briskly. The sound of rough voices was growing louder. "Call the police, too. I'm going to hold them off."

Their eyes widened. "You? Hold them off?"

"Shhh!" Bilbo pressed a finger to his lips. "I'll—I'll pretend to be hotel staff. Offer to, uh, help them with their luggage. Criminals don't _want_ to be detected—they'll play along. Probably," he finished, with a gulp.

"We don't want to leave you," Fili said doubtfully, but Bilbo shooed them both away.

"You're too loud! Get out of here, and I will manage it!" Bilbo ordered, and they obeyed. It was just as well, for three large and very unpleasant persons entered through the garage door.

"Mazdas yesterday, Mazdas today, and blimey, if it don't look like Mazdas again tomorrow, with our luck," said one.

"Shuddup," said another. Bilbo did not know how to distinguish them—they were all quite equally ugly, greasy, and generally uncouth.

_Here goes nothing,_ he thought, and stepped forward down the stairs. "Ahem—excuse me, my good sirs," he started out. His voice sounded reedy and weak, and he did not feel himself as equal to the task as he had a moment ago, once they turned and looked at him.

"Who the 'ell are you?" inquired one, slightly larger than the others.

"I—I'm a porterbus," Bilbo stuttered, and he would have kicked himself if he could. He meant to say _porter_ or _busboy_, but at the last moment he could not remember for the life of him which the right one was. As a consequence, both came out of once, leaving him both ridiculous and dangerously near being exposed.

Sure enough, the thugs' eyes narrowed in unison. "A porterbus?" said one. "He's lyin'."

Bilbo forced a laugh. "Certainly not! Do you need any help with your luggage? I would be glad to assist!"

"A bloody _likely_ story," declared one whom Bilbo thought to look rather the greasiest. "Mates, this is a set-up!"

He tried to run, but they were quick for their size, and before he could open the heavy door in his rattled state, they had seized hold of him and were dragging him down the stairs.

_I shall die in a parking garage,_ Bilbo thought, and it was so like one of his father's typical warnings which, in other circumstances, he might have been amused by.

In these circumstances, he was only terrified. They were no more pleasing up close—they smelled quite awful, and their large hands were hard and ungentle. They began to search him—for what, Bilbo did not know—and things might have gone badly if the door had not burst open.

"Drop him!" a voice rang out, and twisting his head, Bilbo saw that it was Kili, grinning recklessly. He had a gun in his hands.

"What the 'ell?" bellowed the largest thug, and Kili cocked his chin almost haughtily—reminding Bilbo of Thorin.

"I said, _drop him_."

He fired, then, a little too close for Bilbo's comfort, and wounded one of them in the shoulder. He howled, and dropped Bilbo, and then from behind Kili the rest of the company rushed out and down the steps, with guns and knives and a few billy-clubs between the lot of them.

There was a great deal of fighting after that. Afterwards, Bilbo would wonder at the tremendous luck (all things considered) that spared Thorin's men from any but the mildest injuries.

At that particular moment, however, he would not have counted luck with him.

"You're outnumbered!" Thorin's deep voice shouted. "Lower your weapons, return what you stole, and we—"

But they only laughed in response, and Bilbo, who had been trying to get out of the fray as quietly as he could (while dodging gunfire, which was not very easy or enjoyable) felt his arms pinned suddenly behind him, and the cold press of metal to his temple.

"All we need is one to win," growled the one holding the gun, and Bilbo, his heart beating in his throat and his ears, saw Thorin's jaw clench.

There was a pause; the place stilled to silence.

"Drop your weapons, and kick 'em over here," sneered the greasiest one. "Or I paint this wall with the insides of his head."

_v._

They had Bilbo. Kili wasn't sure how it had happened, but somehow here they were lined up and outnumbering this vermin more than four to one, but—

_Bilbo._

_He must be scared out of his wits, _thought Kili, and tried to imagine how he would feel in the little man's position. Or what it would be like to see Fili—

He shut that thought off quickly, and heard Thorin's gun clatter to the dusty, blood-spattered cement. Rebellion burned hot in his stomach, but he dropped his own as well and kicked it forward.

"On your knees," snarled the biggest of the louts. "All of you, with your hands behind your heads. One false move, and—"

They complied. Kili was shaking with anger, and the very thought of how Thorin must feel—

They were searched quickly and harshly, and then the thug was digging in the pocket of his overlarge, loathsomely dirty jeans. Kili felt the sting of a ziptie drawn tight around his wrists, and then he was pulled to his feet, with his arms tugged uncomfortably behind him.

"Get in line," was the next command, and he followed it. It was a wonder that none of the actual hotel staff had come to see what was going on, but Kili wondered if gunfire was a commonplace occurrence, or if they were hiding under their desks. It seemed too good to hope that they had alerted the police.

Before he could observe much more, he was blindfolded and shoved forward. They were going out of the garage, he thought, and his suspicions were confirmed when they were half-dragged, half-pushed into the back of a trailer truck. Then the doors were slammed shut, and there was darkness.

"Fili? Kili?" He heard Thorin's voice rasp, and Kili breathed a sigh of relief when he heard his brother answer, even though he could not make out where brother and uncle were in the cloying blackness.

The men were swearing among themselves. "A right crapfest and no mistake," Gloin griped, among other, less savory epithets.

"Be still," Thorin said sharply, as the truck lurched forward. "Any luck at getting out the ties?"

"Yes," came Fili's voice. "But I doubt if I can go much faster."

"Try," Thorin rapped out, and they all fell into silence.

Some moments passed, and then Ori piped up. "We're slowing down," he said wonderingly.

Kili bit his lip. Were they going to line everyone up and shoot them, execution-style? Or—but up in the cab, there was the muffled sound of curses, so perhaps the deceleration wasn't part of a grand scheme.

The truck finally ground to a halt, and doors slammed up front. But then—as sweet as any music to Kili's ears—there was the sudden shriek of sirens, closing in all around.

"Step away from the vehicle!" scraped a voice over the loudspeaker, and that was all they heard of an intelligible nature for some time, until at last the doors of their prison were flung open.

There were several police officers, all inquiring as to their welfare, and there, with his gray fedora as impudently perched as ever, was Gandalf! Kili was close enough to see him whisper in Thorin's ear, "Get out of here, I'll distract them," and Kili followed Thorin as he motioned the men to slip away one by one as quickly as they could, before the officers could get a proper count.

Chaos worked for them; the police were far too busy arresting the thugs, directing traffic, and reviving Gandalf—who had staged an impromptu collapse—and by the time they sought to take stock of their rescued captives, they had disappeared entirely.

"They'll be looking for us," Gandalf announced, when he had rejoined the company, who had managed to make it off the main highway into a small forested area. The thugs had taken them some miles out of Trollshaws. "I'm afraid we cannot go back to the hotel. Not yet."

"But our vehicles!" Dori put in, quite distressed. "After all that trouble, we're just going to _leave_ them?"

"I fear we must," Gandalf returned, somewhat severely. "I promise to make the proper arrangements—your precious car will not meet some untimely end, unless car thieves are more prolific than just those three. But for now, we must stick together and get as far away from the attention as we can."

Kili hung close by Fili, who was near Thorin. Thorin was hardly a soothing presence, but he was reassuring.

"We have no food, no money, no supplies," he was saying gruffly to Gandalf. "How do you intend to compensate for that?"

"_I_ have money," Gandalf said, patting a pocket of his voluminous coat. "And my car, and luggage. _And_ I have a good friend, not far from here. We will have to catch a bus of some sort to get there, but I think it can be arranged. For now, let us regroup. Mr. Baggins looks quite shaken."

Kili leaned against a tree. It was cold and he had no coat. In another moment, he felt Fili drape something over his shoulders. "I'm _fine_," he said. "Remember? I can take care of myself."

"Well you clearly suck at it," said Fili affectionately. "Just take the damn coat and stop talking."

Kili zipped it up. Thorin was speaking again.

"What brought you back, if I may ask?" he said, looking hard at Gandalf.

"Gunshots," Gandalf returned. "As I would not be much use inside, I decided to—affect the workings of their truck instead."

"I am grateful." Thorin inclined his head ever-so-slightly.

Gandalf smiled. "We all have our talents," he said, and lit his pipe.


	4. dangerous business, going out your door

**A/N: Reviews are amazing. :)**

_"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve._"

_i._

They were alive, and not everything was lost. Not everything. Bilbo reminded himself to be grateful for this, but it was increasingly difficult—because they were still in the thicket, shivering, and coming to no reasonable decisions.

"Who is this friend?" Thorin asked, folding his arms over his chest. "Is he to be trusted?"

"_I _am to be trusted," Gandalf said. "As I have just recently shown. And though he may not be quite your sort, he is a remarkably sound fellow. Very wise."

"What do you mean, _not my sort_?" An edge had crept into Thorin's tone, and Bilbo sighed. He'd known the man for less than two days, but he thought he had his character pinned down pretty well. Cantankerous, proud, suspicious, and stubborn. _Quite a lovely combination,_ he thought, and had to smile at that. The Bilbo Baggins of two days ago would not have been given to such sarcasm, even in thought.

They went on, round and round, and Bilbo began to be impatient. He had something to say—but no one had given him a chance to say it. Finally, when he saw that Fili and Kili looked pinched with cold, he cleared his throat several times until Gandalf looked over at him.

"Well, Mr. Baggins? Do you have something to offer?"

"I managed—when we were scuffling, a key fell out of one of the thug's pockets," Bilbo said, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. "I picked it up, and now that I've had a chance to look it over, it's got some sort of tag. I think it's for a storage unit, or something like."

Gandalf glowered at him. "Why didn't you say something before?"

"Because neither of you would shut up for more than half a second," said Bilbo, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. _You're going to die in a thicket, Bilbo Baggins,_ he thought, and he never recalled his father saying anything about that.

But to his surprise, Thorin's lips twitched in something that might almost have been related to a smile. "He's not wrong," he said, and Gandalf's eyes twinkled.

"Give me the key, Master Burglar."

In the end, it was decided that Gandalf would take the car and find it, since it was not far off. He said that he was taking Bilbo with him, and after Thorin insisted, Fili and Kili.

"You two have caused enough trouble for one day," he said gruffly, but he reached up to ruffle Kili's hair, and Bilbo wondered if he _did_ have his character pinned after all.

Gandalf's car smelled of dust and old books and pipesmoke. He turned on the radio as they drove, and Bilbo didn't recognize the music. But Gandalf hummed, and tapped the wheel with his long fingers. It was past eleven o'clock at night, and Bilbo wondered how two days could change him like this, making him forget time and schedules and—

_Crap._ He was supposed to have called that dentist—

"None of it matters anymore, does it?"

Bilbo started. It was as though Gandalf had read his mind. Perhaps he had.

"I'm sorry, what—" he began, but Gandalf interrupted with a knowing smile.

"What matters will wait for you, and what passes away is not truly important," he said. "You did a brave thing, coming with us—your mother would be proud."

Bilbo was silent for a long moment. He pressed his temple against the cool glass of the window. "I do remember you, you know," he said quietly. "You used to set off fireworks, at parties."

"My dear boy," Gandalf said, with a laugh. "I _made_ those fireworks."

Bilbo turned to look at him, eyes wide. "Really?" He found, suddenly, that he was smiling. "What do you _really _do Gandalf? For a living, I mean?"

"Everything," Gandalf said, exiting off the highway. "It is a great burden."

It was close on eleven-thirty when they pulled onto a graveled drive. Bilbo squinted in the darkness; he could just make out a row of nondescript square buildings, huddled close together.

"What if there are…more of their kind, here?" he asked, but Gandalf shook his head.

"Don't fret. I am not unprepared."

They stepped out into the chill darkness. Bilbo looked round to the backseat, where the Durin brothers had been unexpectedly silent.

Kili's head was resting on his older brother's shoulder.

"He's sleeping," Fili whispered, with an apologetic smile. "Give me a minute—I'll wake him up and we'll follow you in."

Gandalf agreed, and Bilbo followed him over the crunching stones to the low structures. It didn't take long for Gandalf to find the right one, and though he muttered a few curses at the battered key, the door heaved up easily enough.

"A little light," he said, and tugged at a cord hanging overhead.

Bilbo gasped. The place—though rather foul-smelling—was packed. There were clothes piled in every corner, crates of food, and several safe boxes.

Gandalf whistled softly to himself and fell to poking about. Bilbo followed, with less certainty—unwilling to touch the spoils of criminals whose ugliness was all too fresh in his mind.

"We'll take some of the tinned food," Gandalf murmured. "And clothes—and ah!" He paused before a cracked chest.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, squinting in the yellow light. He ought to have been in bed hours ago, but there seemed little chance of finding one now.

"Weapons," Gandalf said, and showed him. There was a collection of knives, and other things that Bilbo hadn't seen before. He swallowed, hard.

"I wish—"

"I know." Gandalf's eyes were bright and kind. "But we will need them, even though we may not want them."

"I don't want to kill anyone," Bilbo said, and he thought that his voice sounded small. The blades glinted hard before his eyes.

"And you may never have to," Gandalf replied. "Carry a blade to protect yourself, to protect others—and to remember that you would rather not use it." He handed Bilbo a knife in a leather sheath, with a graceful blade.

_Poetic,_ his mother would say. Bilbo kept the thought to himself. He didn't want to call something beautiful that was so…_lethal_.

Gandalf was exclaiming again. He had found a walking stick that was actually a sword, with a curious name—_Glamdring_—etched on the carved handle. And he took another as well—a long knife that had _Orcrist_ stamped on the hilt, with a keen edge that pricked his finger when he tested it.

"Perhaps this will lighten Thorin's mood," he suggested, tilting an eyebrow, and Bilbo tried to smile.

"I hope so."

"What did you find?" came Fili's voice, from the entrance. Kili was a few steps behind him, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"Come, take your pick," Gandalf said. "You and your brother. Thanks to Mr. Baggins, we have hit upon a fine hoard."

"Awesome!" Fili said, and his eyes lighted up. It made him look a bit less tired, Bilbo thought, though it was clear that Kili wasn't the only one who should be sleeping.

The boys—well, they weren't really boys, but if they were going to make such a fuss over Bilbo being older than them, he might as well go along with it—dug through the collection with interest, and though some of the weapons were discarded as "cheap crap," in Fili's words, Bilbo was sure he saw a blade or five ending up in their pockets.

Gandalf glanced at his pocketwatch. "It's rather late," he observed, as though nobody else had noticed. "I suppose—"

His phone rang.

_ii._

The sunlight was fanning through the treetops like seeking fingers, dappling the grass below with gold upon green. There was little sound but the whisper of a breeze, and the idle puffing of a Volkswagen van that had not been new for forty years.

Its driver—or to be more apt, its inhabitant—was scuttling about through the grass, tugging up a blade here and there and shaking his head so ardently that his fur hat—too warm for most, in springtime—was in danger of tumbling off.

"Not good, not good!" he mumbled. "It's all sick—all dying. Garbage and waste and some sort of poison!" He ran a careful finger along the bark of a tall tree, and sniffed. "Something fouler," he whispered. "Very foul indeed."

Frowning, he turned towards the east.

_iii._

He had been a fool, for letting Gandalf go. An hour had passed, and they were still huddling in this godforsaken grove of trees. Thorin could hear panic rising in their voices. Cars, money, food—all in jeopardy, and the reality of what this journey might demand—

"Don't mind them, laddie," Balin said in a low voice. "They'll grumble, sure enough, but they're with you. Trust them."

Thorin shifted uneasily. The night was getting on, and the air was sharp. He had seen his nephews shivering, and he was glad that he had sent them with Gandalf. Someone, at least, might get some rest.

Dwalin, growing tired of the men's complaints, growled a few curses at them until they were silent. Then he relented slightly and passed out cigarettes. "They'll warm you up," he said, furnishing a lighter.

Thorin saw Dori pluck it out of Ori's hand. Ori sighed.

"Well, that's a solution, isn't it?" Balin asked, a bit dryly, and Dwalin whacked him fondly on the back.

"Tobacco cures most ills, good drink the rest."

That got a chuckle out of a few of them, at least, and Thorin took a deep drag of his cigarette. _All will be well,_ he told himself. It could have been his sister's voice. She'd always been the optimistic one, but even so, he couldn't bring himself to really believe the words.

They were able to see the road from their hideout, and it had been unusually quiet. But then Bofur spoke up. "D'you see that van there? It's slowing down. Right 'round here! Pullin' into them bushes, yonder!"

Thorin stiffened, reaching for some sort of weapon, but remembered that he no longer had any. Sure enough, however, a dilapidated, capsule-like Volkswagen was guttering to a halt on the shoulder of the road.

"Stay sharp," Thorin hissed, and moved forward as stealthily as he could. They hadn't gone a day without something going awfully wrong, and while he wasn't expecting to encounter impending doom in the guise of an old hippie van, anything could happen.

He had not yet cleared the trees when a voice spoke close by. "There you are, Thorin!"

Thorin ground his teeth together to steady himself, badly startled as he was. "Gandalf," he hissed. "At last you decide to grace us with your presence."

"Our little excursion was quite successful," Gandalf replied, unruffled. "However, I must stop you from stalking our unexpected visitor. I know who he is—and I told him to meet us here. He is a friend."

"_The _friend?" Thorin asked, glowering towards the Volkswagen van.

"No, no," Gandalf assured him, with a laugh. "He is quite another one. Very different. He is here on business with me…it does not concern your quest, at least not yet. But he may also be able to help us."

Thorin considered for a moment, then nodded tightly. "Come, men," he said, raising his voice. "There's no danger."

Even as he said it, he felt a tremor of uncertainty. _Lead,_ he ordered himself. _It is not your privilege to show weakness._

Forbearance, he found, was not particularly needed. When they crowded round the wheezing Volkswagen, the man who got out made Gandalf look quite sane and put together.

"Radagast!" Gandalf exclaimed. "It _is_ good to see you. Your phone call was quite urgent—"

"Oh, Gandalf, if you only _knew_—" the man babbled, his hands flailing in his overlong sleeves. "It is—"

Gandalf patted his shoulder. "Come to our little grove of trees," he said, as though said grove were some sort of cheery, welcoming meeting place. Thorin's lips thinned to a line. Gandalf had not even favored him with an explanation, and now they were still freezing, still hungry, and exhausted—

"Uncle," came Fili's voice, close by. "We found it. And we got plenty of food, if…if you want everyone to eat."

Thorin nodded. "That would be best. Keep them together." He frowned when Fili lingered. "What is it?"

"Gandalf—he, uh, found this for you," Fili said hesitantly, holding something out. Thorin took it, and smiled for what felt like the first time in days. It was a knife, full-tanged and evenly balanced, with a leather bound hilt.

"Good," was all he could think to say, but it was enough to elicit an answering smile from his nephew. Fili ducked his head and moved off, and Thorin clasped the sheathed knife to his belt.

As the men gravitated towards Gandalf's car to find food, Thorin joined Gandalf and Radagast, who were talking in hushed voices.

"There's something dreadful happening in Greenwood Forest," Radagast said. He had borrowed Gandalf's pipe, and was alternating his harried words with long pulls at it. "The locals have started calling it _Mirkwood_, and I'm afraid the name will stick. I visited a little glen, used to be the prettiest place. I went there often—it wasn't far from Rhosgobel. But they've been dumping garbage in it." He shook his head. "No one's stopping them—and there's been more and more fires, trees cut down for no reason at all. I'm afraid the Spiders may be back at it, and little being done to stop them."

"The Spiders?" Gandalf asked. "I thought they'd been shut down." He turned and said to Thorin, briefly, "An environmental vandal group. Always doing ugly things to green places, for no reason other than their own ill will." He faced Radagast again. "But that isn't all, is it?"

Radagast took a deep, shaky breath. "I recognized some of the poison. The smell of it. You remember, that foul odor…it clung to the victims. I would know it anywhere."

In the darkness, it was hard to tell, but Thorin thought that Gandalf went paler. "You don't mean—"

"Yes." Radagast reached out and clenched Gandalf's shoulders, shaking him. "There's been rumors, you know there have. Dol Guldur—and that new politician. He's been climbing the ladders so fast, but there's something very, very dark about him."

Gandalf frowned deeply. "You are sure?"

"I went there," Radagast said, and shuddered. "And I found—well, look at it at another time." He pressed a small bundle into Gandalf's hand. For the first time, then, he seemed to notice Thorin.

"Thorin Durin!" he said. "I'd know the nose of that family anywhere." He smiled, and then shook his head again, his fur hat trembling. "But it's not good, not good at all—you shouldn't be here. Not now."

Gandalf took his pipe back with a jerk. "Get your addled wits together, Radagast! Do you know something that you should have told us first?

Thorin was silent, but he felt his heart quicken suddenly in his chest. Radagast tugged at his hat.

"Oh—oh—it was right on the tip of my tongue…well, anyway, yes! Yes of course! I mean, I've heard tell…through many friends, that _they're_ looking for you."

"Who?" Thorin demanded, fists clenching.

"I don't know—they ride in dark cars, my friends tell me, and ask lots of questions. But they're on your trail, sure enough. In fact, last I heard, they weren't far from here."

The whine of distant highway traffic suddenly seemed more sinister. Thorin turned to look angrily at Gandalf. "Your _friend_ has been rather behindhand in his information. What are we still doing here?"

Before Gandalf could answer, Kili bounded towards them. "There's cars coming," he said. "I know, I know, we're by a road—but they're…they're sort of slowing down, and they've got flashlights…they're still a ways off, but—"

"Run," Gandalf ground out, but Radagast stopped him. "Swap cars," he said, with an almost manic smile. They won't expect you to be riding in Bunny—and I can lead 'em off in your old beast."

Gandalf looked to Thorin, and they both nodded. "Get the others," he said to Kili. "Into the van, quick as you can." He narrowed his eyes at Gandalf. "Why now?"

"Why ever?" Gandalf simply shrugged. "The world is changing, Thorin."

The van was gutted of its backseats and filled with odds and ends of a dubious nature, but they crammed in as best they could. Gandalf took the driver's seat, and cast a wary glance in the rearview mirror. "They're almost on us," he said. "We're mostly concealed by these bushes."

Thorin chewed his lip. "Let's hope they choose the moving target."

As if on cue, Radagast, in Gandalf's car, pealed out suddenly and screeched down the road. In answer, there was the roar of several engines and a half dozen black SUVs followed him in quick succession.

Thorin tasted salt in his mouth, and realized that he had bitten his lip almost through.

"I think they're past," Gandalf said aloud, probably to him. His hands were firm on the wheel, his eyes trained steadily on the stream of lights ahead of them.

"What about your friend?" Mr. Baggins's voice was shaking.

"Radagast?" Gandalf glanced in the mirror. "He'll be quite alright. He's a slippery old fellow. We fought together in the war."

_The war_. Despite the tense circumstances, Thorin stared at Gandalf, momentarily dumfounded. Of all possible things on the man's resume, he wouldn't have guessed military service to be one of them.

Gandalf shut off the headlights and pulled onto the road. "We've got to get to Imladris road," he murmured. "We'll be safe there."

"Then go," Thorin urged, through his teeth.

Gandalf stepped on the gas.

The van shook beneath them, and Thorin pressed his bitten nails into his palms, trying to steady himself. _You're softening, _he told himself. _Keep it together._

They were almost to the highway, with what Gandalf deemed enough distance between them and the chase, when there was the snarl of an engine nearby. From an inlet road, the glow of headlights careened close behind them.

One driver had been smarter than the others.

_iv._

The van couldn't go any faster. Kili had gathered that much, because Gandalf was cursing under his breath and revving the pedal to the floor—but it wasn't doing much good. The lights behind them were coming closer, and Kili's breath froze in his throat when there was the sudden snap of a gunshot.

"Everybody down!" Thorin bellowed, and Kili crouched as low as he could in the crowded space. He felt Fili's hand close around his wrist, a comforting pressure, but the lurching of the van and the crackle of gunfire made him feel as though he would be sick.

And then they just—_stopped_.

Kili heard Mr. Baggins moan. It all seemed a blur—the men swearing and muttering around him, and Gandalf dialing frantically on his phone.

"Who the hell are you calling?" Thorin asked, but Gandalf didn't answer him.

"Yes, it's me," he said into the phone, over the din. "We're in something of a pinch. Twenty minutes out, just off the Great East Highway, for God's sake. West Bree road. I don't know who they are. Radagast—what? Yes. Dark SUVs, though it's almost too dark to tell." He hung up, and surveyed the men grimly over his shoulder. "Arm yourselves as best you can. This is going to be—unpleasant." He reached across Thorin and fumbled in the glovebox. "Ah, yes. He always carries a few guns, good fellow."

"Three," came Thorin's voice.

"Very well," Gandalf said. "Best shots?"

Thorin took one, then said, "Dwalin and Kili."

Fili's fingers tightened around Kili's wrist.

"Then you've got to go first." Gandalf's voice was grave. "Take anyone out while we can. I have no doubt that the others will be coming back."

Doors slammed in the distance.

_They're coming, _Kili thought, and the gun was cold as it was pressed into his hand.

"Uncle, _please_," Fili whispered, close beside him. "Not him."

Thorin's expression was unreadable in the near-blackness. "He's the better shot."

And it was true. Thorin used to take them to the shooting range, make them practice until they could hit bullseye after bullseye. Kili had never really thought about _why_. The family history was distant, a dark dream—nothing more. He just loved shooting, the feeling of his finger on the trigger. He hadn't thought—

"I'm coming," he said, his voice thick, but Fili wouldn't let him go. "Fee," he whispered. "I'll be _fine_."

"We've got to move," Thorin said tautly. Dwalin had shifted forward in the cramped space, his hand on the door.

Kili tried to tug free.

"_Fili_, let him go," Thorin growled, and Fili did, with a bitten-off sound in his throat.

The night had grown colder. Kili blinked, his hands wrapped around the gun, but he couldn't see _anything. _The SUV was running twenty yards behind them, but there was no other sign of life.

All he heard was a crack, and a spatter of glass, as a shot shattered the window inches from his head.

Kili dropped to the ground, returning fire along with Dwalin and Thorin. There was a yelp, and the heavy thud of a fall. Kili didn't have time to relax, though—he felt hands close suddenly around his neck, choking him. Their attackers were near silent, and well-trained.

Kili struggled and kicked, but the man wasn't letting go, and he couldn't _breathe_—

There was a burbling gasp, and the hands around his throat loosened.

"Let him go, you _bastard_," said Fili, through the broken window, and tugged his knife free from the man's back.

The van doors opened, and all the men tumbled out, eager to help. There was more gunfire, but their assailants had closed in, and the hand-to-hand combat was quick and ugly. These weren't car-thieves, Kili thought desperately, as Dwalin grappled with a dark shadow who matched him in size. They were _assassins._ Fili's quip of the early evening had come true.

"They're all down," Dwalin said at last, breathing heavily. "All five of 'em."

_Only five?_ Kili's heart sunk. _We're not up for this,_ he thought, and tried to swallow down his fear.

"Anyone hurt?" Gandalf asked, making rounds of the company. He had the sword-stick in his hand, the one he'd picked up from the storage unit. There was something sticky gleaming on it.

_Blood._ Kili wondered, suddenly, if it had been _his_ shot that hit the mark, and his knees felt weak.

"Oy!" Nori called out. "They're coming back! The rest of 'em!"

"We're going to _die_," moaned Ori, and some of the others seemed to agree with him.

There was nowhere to run fast enough—nothing they could do but wait, huddled in a tight circle as the piercing headlights drew closer.

_There must be at least thirty of them,_ Kili thought, and shut his eyes. _Oh, Mum. I shouldn't have come._ But that couldn't be right, because then Fili would have been here alone—

"Stand your ground," Gandalf ordered. "Get behind the van, if you can."

The headlights halted. Doors were opening.

And then, a new sound—

Kili didn't recognize it at first. But it grew louder, much louder—the whirring of a chopper closing in. It hovered above them, so loud that he had to cover his ears.

"Stand down," he heard, through his fingers. "This is the FBI."

_v._

Afterwards, Fili reflected that Kili might have been right. There must be something wizardous about Gandalf—the way he was talking their way out of this mess to the thin-faced FBI agent, who was growing less skeptical by the minute.

_Self-defense_ became_ we were hostages, and they got in a fight amongst themselves_. There seemed to be something of a chance that they wouldn't even have to stay for statements, though how Gandalf managed _that_, Fili never knew.

"We were set upon," Gandalf explained, gesticulating dramatically. "And though we tried to evade them, our vehicle failed. Who are they?"

"Guns for hire," said Agent Lindir coldly. "They've often dared to masquerade as law enforcement, in their slick dark cars." His lip curled in contempt at the trussed-up men being herded into squad cars, all of whom were uniformly silent and stonefaced.

"Guns for hire," Gandalf repeated, shaking his head as though the prospect was wholly unexpected. "Well, we are very glad that you came along when you did."

"We have been hunting them for some time, Mr. Mithrandir," Agent Lindir said, with a thin smile. Fili didn't really like him, though he knew he should be grateful. "You are lucky Elrond knew to alert us. He has been a valuable resource to us, as always."

"Of course he has," Gandalf agreed. "I know that there is business to be attended to, but my companions are in need of some rest, and good food. Elrond is expecting us. Will you let us stay at his home, while all this is being sorted out?"

The agent's eyebrows lifted very high indeed. "Elrond is keeping strange company these days," he said. "Of course, I am not referring to _you_, Mr. Mithrandir. Your name is well-known to our office. But these others…well, if they are with you, I do not see that it will be any trouble. We will have to be in touch, though."

Gandalf nodded emphatically. "Absolutely."

"I told you he's a wizard," Kili murmured, close by. Fili tried to grin at him, to say something, but the words wouldn't come. They had been sitting here for some time, wrapped in orange blankets—shock blankets, an agent had said, passing them out, though Thorin and Dwalin had disdained them—but he couldn't stop shaking.

_You're an idiot,_ he told himself. _Kili knew what he was doing. He's safe, isn't he? He's safe._

"We will convey you to Elrond's home," Agent Lindir was saying, speaking for the first time to Thorin. Fili didn't like the superior tilt of his head, and neither, he was sure, did Thorin. "We will have to monitor you closely, I'm afraid. One of the vehicles got away, and even though Mr. Mithrandir has laid out your circumstances, we will need statements from all of you."

"Isn't Gandalf's last name _Gray_?" Kili asked, and Fili motioned to him to be quiet.

"It's an alias, dude. Obviously."

"Huh. Ok."

Thorin's jawline was grim. "Who is this _Elrond_?" he asked, matching Lindir, syllable for syllable, in disdain.

Lindir was about to answer, but Gandalf quickly interjected. "The friend I spoke of, before all this mess. Now come. Your friends are tired, and frightened, and all of them need sleep. We have had quite enough excitement for one night."

_Kili, the best shot. Kili, disappearing into the darkness. Kili, with a monster's hands around his neck. _

Fili pressed his hand over his mouth.

"Are you alright?" Kili asked, sounding worried, and he nodded as best he could.

"I just—I feel like I might be sick."

"No time for that, lad," Dwalin said, not un-gently. "Come along, you two. We're going to Elrond's house, or whatever the hell this prettyboy suit wants to call it."

They followed obediently, and were shuffled around into different cars, all of which were clean and neat and didn't sputter and stall out at inconvenient moments.

They drove for what was, Fili knew after, not very long. But at the time, it felt like forever—surrounded by starlight and the rush and whistle of highway traffic, remote but comforting. Their destination was not directly off the highway—rather, it took them to quieter roads, and finally, a sudden dip down a hill, into an almost hidden valley, carved out by a river that rippled darkly under the night sky.

Fili would never forget how it looked in the darkness—the great, tall house with white pillars and gleaming windows, the trees and rocks and the mountain behind. It was like no home he had ever known and yet he felt it so…stately and warm and ever-present, in the memory of any who had ever visited it.

In his dreamlike state, he barely caught sight of the engraved sign by the gate—

_Rivendell Law Office_

_Elrond Earendil, Esq. _

_White Council Law Firm._

They crossed a stone bridge on foot, with what little luggage they still had, and the squad cars growled away into the darkness. Gandalf strode ahead, seemingly still quite alert, and rapped on the door.

It opened into golden light. "Welcome," said a voice, but Fili did not remember much after that.

**A/N: This chapter was hard to write. I had totally forgotten about Radagast and the movie-canon chase scene when I started this fic, so I had to come up with a plan for it rather off-the-cuff. I hope that it turned out to your satisfaction! I am sorry/not-sorry for the blatant disregard/high-handedness with actual law enforcement procedure, but let's just chalk it up to fun, games, and Gandalf's sly ways. I promise that there will be lots of Rivendell-y goodness in the next chapter, as well as some passing of time…I realize that I have made a lot happen in one night. Starting off with a bang, right? Thanks again for all the love. I read all the reviews multiple times. =)**


	5. last homely house

**A/N: Rivendell at last, folks! And Elrond, who was very fun to write. I tucked lots of Easter Eggs in here, both for ****_The Hobbit_**** and ****_LoTR_****. Enjoy! And please, please review. I love hearing what you think! =)**

_"Morning as fair and fresh as could be dreamed: blue sky and never a cloud, and the sun dancing on the water."_

_i._

He was sitting in the dark. The headlights filtered through the window, sending gleaming shafts slicing into the blackness, glinting off the curved metal around his arm.

Only one of six had returned.

Their feet shuffled hesitantly in the corridor, and he waited in silence. They would come—they always came, no matter the cost. They were loyal.

But loyalty wasn't enough.

The door opened at last. Scatha growled, and he reached down, the fingers of his good hand curling in the coarse white fur of her ruff.

"Hush," he purred, and then fixed his gaze on the men in the doorway. There were five of them, and he could taste their fear in the air. His eyes had grown used to the dark—he could see them better than they could see him.

"Sir," said the foremost of the men. His voice shook ever-so-slightly. Scatha's ears flattened back against her skull. "Sir, we—the FBI—"

He didn't speak, but rose, silently and smoothly, to his feet. In a few seconds, he had closed the distance between them, so that he could see the sheen of sweat on the man's brow.

"I understand," he said aloud, very gently, and plunged the pincers of his arm brace deep between the man's ribs.

When the sounds of dying had faded, he flicked on the lights, cleaning the hooked ends with a fresh handkerchief.

"Have a drink, gentlemen," Azog said, almost affably. "We start at dawn."

_ii._

Kili woke to sunlight, and the clean scent of lavender, in a room he had never seen before.

He buried his face in the deliciously soft pillow, trying to reorder his thoughts. The last night was an uncomfortable blur—gunshots and chases and—yes, now he remembered, and in truth, he'd rather forget.

But it was much less disturbing in the fresh morning air, and furthermore, Kili was sure that this was, without a doubt, the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in.

_I'm never going to get up again,_ he decided, hugging the pillow affectionately. But even as he drifted back towards sleep, he heard a door opening.

"C'mon, you lout," Fili said fondly. "It's past ten o'clock."

"Don't wanna get up—" Kili mumbled stubbornly, but his brother pulled the blankets off him.

"I brought coffee," Fili said, holding out a mug like a peace offering. "And Kee, you've got to see this place. It's—"

Kili groaned and sat up, taking the mug. It was almost translucent in its thinness, with an etched design in what he had a sneaking suspicion was _actual_ gold. "Ok, where the heck are we?" he asked, in a hushed tone.

Fili sat on the edge of the bed, pushing back his hair. "Rivendell," he said, rolling the word over his tongue. "Apparently Gandalf's friend is a fancy lawyer, and this is his…I don't know. Estate? It's _huge_. And everything is super expensive."

Kili's eyes widened. "A _lawyer_? Uncle Thorin must be—"

"Hacked off?" Fili nodded, grimacing. "He is. Extremely."

Kili took a slurping sip of the coffee. It was exquisite. "So…what're we doing?"

Fili shrugged. "No clue. Everyone's sort of milling about, trying not to break stuff, at least for the time being. Some of them are doing better than others. I think Bilbo's having a grand old time."

Kili grinned, kicking off his sheets, and getting up. He was wearing flannel pants and a clean t-shirt, he realized. "How did I get into these?"

"Kicking and screaming," Fili informed him. "Or nearly. You know how you get when you're tired."

"I literally do not remember that at all," Kili said, and plucked at the t-shirt. "This isn't mine, though."

"No. Elrond gave us all clothes. Though where he found them, I don't know. Maybe he runs a charity on the side."

"Elrond?"

"Gandalf's friend." Fili stood up and moved towards the window, tugging back the curtain. "He's—nice enough, I guess. For a lawyer. But don't tell Uncle Thorin I said that."

Kili rubbed his stomach. "Any chance of getting breakfast around here?" he asked. "I'm starving."

Fili reached over and ruffled his hair. "I'm sure you are, little brother. And yes, there's a motherload of waffles and pastries and stuff downstairs. Including salad, for some reason. But wait—come here. Look at this freaking place."

Kili peered out the window. He saw long stone walkways, graceful arches, and gardens that were beginning to be vibrant in these early days of spring. The grounds dipped downhill, hemmed on either side by stately trees, and all about were sounds and sights of the river.

"Wow," he breathed. "Far cry from Ered Luin."

"Right?" Fili returned, and smiled. "I wish Mum could see it. She'd love it here."

Kili tugged at his tangled hair. "Can we call her? After breakfast?"

"If my phone is still working," Fili said, nodding. "But we'll have to…cut out some parts."

"Lots of parts," Kili agreed. "OK, stop gabbing. I'm about to die of hunger."

He dressed quickly, in a pair of jeans that fit him well enough—"They're washing our other clothes," said Fili—and followed his brother down a spiral staircase. There were bookcases lining many of the walls from floor to ceiling, and paintings and sculptures and—Kili shook his head. It was too much to take in all at once.

"Fili, and Kili, I think?"

Kili paused at the bottom step. The man who had spoken came forward, extending a hand in greeting. He was tall and slim, in a dark blue suit and burgundy tie—simply tailored, but obviously of excellent quality. His dark hair was slicked back, and his intelligent features were softened by a friendly smile.

Kili shook hands. "Yes, sir."

"I am Elrond," their host said. His eyes were steady and deep and somehow old, although there was no gray in his hair. He had a ring on his finger—plain and heavy, with a blue stone. "I hope that you slept well?"

"Very," Kili answered, feeling shy. Elrond seemed kind, but there was something a bit intimidating about the aura of knowledge that seemed to radiate from him.

"I was going to take him to breakfast," Fili said. "He's hungry."

Elrond's laugh was clear and pleasant. "I have two sons, and their young friend Estel often stays with us," he said. "I am well aware of youthful appetites. Please, eat your fill." He gestured gracefully towards the kitchen.

"He makes me feel like an idiot," Kili sighed in an undertone, as Elrond strode away.

"He's a lawyer, that's kind of his job," Fili answered, in the same low voice. "I don't think he means to, though."

"Yeah, he's not a bad sort," Kili assented, as they came into the kitchen. There were eggs and potatoes sizzling in a pan, and eight or so of the men were seated around the table, eating and drinking and generally making noise.

"No meat," Nori complained. "All this fuss, and we end up at a bloomin' vegetarian's!"

Kili squeezed in between Balin and Bofur. "Where's Uncle Thorin?" he asked.

"Talking with Gandalf," Balin replied. "Trying to figure the quickest way out of this place."

Kili paused in the middle of a bite of potato. "A way _out_? You want to leave too?"

Balin's face was tight. "Aye, lad. Lawyers are no good. Pretty talk and pretty promises, but you can't trust 'em. Not an inch."

_iii._

"I don't trust him," Thorin repeated, staring Gandalf down. "You brought us here without telling me anything about this _friend,_ and now I find out he's a bloody lawyer?"

Gandalf's eyes sparked with annoyance. "Your pride will be your undoing, Thorin _Oakenshield_." He turned away, plucking an unfurling leaf from the low-hanging branch of a tree and cradling it in his palm as though it were more important than the conversation he was currently dragging out. "Elrond is wise, and experienced, and more than that, he is a skilled cartographer! If you've had a chance to look at that map I gave you, you will see that it reveals very little but a simple plan of your grandfather's grounds. Now, if he can help us uncover whatever secrets it may be hiding, isn't that worth swallowing down your stubbornness _just this once_?"

"We came to them—after," Thorin said, turning away and looking down into the valley. The voice of the river seemed to be mocking him. "Lawyers, just like him. Rich and comfortable, in their fine houses. Begging for help, for somewhere to turn. None of them were willing to take on an opponent as formidable as Smaug. Hell, some of them even seemed to think that we deserved what we got. Mining was such a _crime_ against the environment."

"You have been badly used, all of you." Gandalf's voice had softened slightly. "But Elrond is quite a different breed, I promise you. He may not agree with you on every point, but he is a good man. You would be wise to listen to what he has to say."

"And if I do not?" Thorin folded his arms, fingers clenching hard against the taut muscles. "If I choose to go my own way, instead of taking the advice of those who never seemed to take much interest in me before—what then? Will you leave, too? Abandon us to our fate?"

"Elrond is not showing us kindness because he hopes to pilfer some part of your grandfather's wealth," Gandalf returned gruffly. "He is helping because I asked him to, and because he, too, has suffered injustice in his time. His wife was attacked by the same sort of men we narrowly escaped last night, some years ago, in revenge over a case he won. She never recovered."

"I am sorry for his loss," Thorin said evenly. "But my parents, and my grandparents, and my brother are dead, along with many of our friends. I did not, if you have noticed, receive a grand house and a prosperous business as my reward for such hardship."

Gandalf crumpled the leaf in his hand and stalked off, muttering to himself.

Thorin exhaled. The sunlight was bright—it was close on noon. He wandered a while over the smooth stone walkways, pausing on the bridge over the river that led towards the front doors. He should go in again, speak with the company. But he paused, steadying himself against the rail. He felt like a stranger amidst this paradise. It wasn't meant for men like him.

Yet here he was—misunderstood in his bitterness, chastised for his determination. There were few left who sympathized with him. He hadn't made a habit of finding friends.

"I hate this place," rumbled a voice behind him, and he turned to see Dwalin. There was, Thorin reflected, some comfort in the fact that Dwalin's unsociability could always be relied upon to be equal to, if not greater than, his own.

"I am told," he replied with deliberate sarcasm, "That it is safe, and welcoming, and a general utopia."

"Screw it," growled Dwalin, and lit a cigarette.

Thorin took one gladly. He'd promised Dis, some years ago, that he'd stop smoking—but whenever he was stressed, which was almost always, he fell back on it hard.

"Kili says he's going to take up smoking," Dwalin said, tucking it between his teeth.

Thorin glowered into the distance. It was a clear day—he could see mountains to the east. Just not his mountain. "I'd kill him."

Dwalin chuckled, low in his throat. "The lad just wants to be like you."

Thorin couldn't find it in himself to smile. "Well, he shouldn't." He ran a hand through his hair, jerking his fingers through the tangles.

Dwalin didn't try to argue with him. "What's your plan?" he asked at length, after a companionable silence.

Thorin rested his elbows on the cool curve of stone. "We'll stay for a week, since it seems we have to. The whole damned business with the FBI had better be handled."

Dwalin dipped his head in a nod. "Very well."

Thorin glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. "I expected more of a fight from you, at least. You said it yourself, you hate it here."

"You give the orders," Dwalin answered, with a roll of his shoulders. "You don't have to test my loyalty."

Thorin breathed out, watching his cigarette crumble and glow between his fingers. "I know."

"First time anyone's smoked in this perfect valley, I'll bet," Dwalin murmured, and Thorin had to laugh, at that.

"No doubt we'll be served with a lawsuit for disturbing the peace," he said. The sound of voices overhead made them both look up. On a second-floor balcony, Thorin caught sight of his nephews, chatting and laughing with a few of Elrond's younger associates. First-year, probably—and, conveniently, both were female and quite pretty.

"I can see the stormclouds gathering on your brow," Dwalin said. "Go easy on them, Thorin. They're just boys."

"They don't remember," Thorin said sharply. He wasn't sure what he felt—an ache, something like loneliness, not quite anger. "They don't remember what it was like. What we lost."

"Would you want them to?" Dwalin's voice was unusually soft. "The lads love you. They'll follow you anywhere you lead them. You don't have to prove yourself to them."

Thorin didn't look at him. When he spoke, the words were almost harsh. "If what we're doing isn't important to every man in the company, how can it be to any?"

_iv._

Fili put the phone on speaker and dialed.

"She won't have left for work yet, right?" Kili asked, shifting so that he was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

Fili shook his head. "No. She doesn't start until four o'clock today, remember?"

Kili's lips curved in a small smile. "Oh, yeah."

The line rang three times, and then their mother's voice came across clear. "Fili? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me, Mum," he said, and found that he couldn't stop grinning, just hearing her voice again. "Me and Kili."

They heard her blow out a long breath. "Oh, thank God. I know it's only been a few days, but—"

"Yeah, we meant to call sooner," Fili said. "Sorry. We've been…busy." He met Kili's eyes. Kili grimaced, as if to say, _understatement of the year, bro._

"Well, tell me everything," Dis said emphatically. "Where are you? Or should I not know?"

"Nah, it's fine," Fili said. "We're actually staying at one of Gandalf's friends for a bit. It's a really pretty place. You'd love it."

"They've got a river, and the house is _huge_," Kili chimed in, bouncing up and down a bit. "It's awesome. Dude's vegetarian, though." He sighed.

Their mother laughed. "I'm glad to hear that you're doing well, lack of manly food aside. No trouble so far, right?"

Fili thought of last night, and bit his lip. "Uh…none," he said, but Kili's expression told him it hadn't been a very convincing effort.

"Fili." Dis's voice sharpened. "What happened?"

"It's _really_ nothing, Mum," Kili interjected. "I promise."

"Kili, don't even start with me." Still the warning tone. "Do I need to drive—or fly, who knows—out there myself and knock some sense into my brother?"

Fili raked his hands through his hair. "Look, mum. We stayed at this really crappy hotel one night, and there was a bit of a scuffle, but no one got hurt." That was a part of a part of the story, so, sort of removed, but still. Not an out-and-out lie.

"You tell Thorin—" Dis began, and then stopped short. "Alright, just listen to me. I know that there will be trouble at one time or another, but _please, _will you take care of yourselves?"

"'Course, Mum." Kili's eyes were bright, and maybe even a little wet, and Fili reached over and squeezed his brother's shoulder.

"Mum," he said, "Kee and I are great. Really. We slept on these super comfortable beds last night, and the food is good, and there are even cute girls…"

"Girls, hmm?"

"Yeah, don't worry. We're not staying here long or anything."

"Alright there, cowboy," she said, but she sounded more relaxed. "You call me when you can, understand? Both of you."

"Yes, Mum," they said, nodding gravely, as though she were there to see them.

"I love you," she said, and Fili wanted to believe that he was imagining the catch in her voice.

"Love you too!" Kili shouted, and Fili laughed. "Bye, Mum. Love you."

"I miss her," Kili sighed, throwing himself back on the bed. Fili nudged him.

"Hey, just because you slept here last night doesn't mean it's yours. Don't break it."

"Please. I'm not Bombur," Kili argued. "Hey, do you want to explore? Look around? You know. It's kind of cool, and maybe…"

"Yeah, maybe we'll run into those hot first-years again, right?" Fili lifted an eyebrow. "I'd agree on that score, brother, but you're _so_ awkward at flirting."

"You think you're so much better, just 'cause you pour drinks," Kili said defiantly. "I basically _serenade_ them at my job. So much more romantic."

Fili threw a pillow at him. "You coming, or what, Prince Charming?"

"Jerk," Kili retorted, following him out the door.

They were careful about poking around the house—it was extremely interesting, and Fili longed to take down the ornate, leather-bound books from their high-shelves—but it was like walking through a museum.

"I bet there's some cool stories behind this haul," Kili mused. "Did you see the broken sword in the other room?"

Fili nodded. "I guess the law offices are all on the lower floors," he said. "But to be honest, I still feel like we're trespassing."

"That hasn't bothered everyone else," Kili told him. "They've gotten over their nerves, I think. I'm pretty sure that Nori's going to try and steal something before we're out of here."

Fili looked around quickly to make sure that no one had heard. "Thorin won't like that."

"I suppose," Kili replied, running a finger over an intricate tapestry that was hanging between two bookcases. "Uncle Thorin isn't fond of these people, though."

Fili felt a twinge of uneasiness at the thought of his uncle's all-too-apparent distaste for this place. _Of course. They're lawyers. Did you expect him to think any differently of them?_

_No,_ he replied, to the accusing voice in his mind. _I just wish we could stay here, a little longer…_

"Is everything alright?" Kili asked, a concerned look creeping over his face.

Fili smiled quickly. "Of course. Let's go out, though—it's too confining, with all this breakable stuff. I feel like you're going to smash something as soon as I turn my back."

"Probably," Kili agreed amiably, and they walked out into the sunlight together.

_v._

Dinner was an embarrassment. Bilbo, for one, would have been delighted to rejoin civilized company once more and share a delectable meal with their host and Gandalf, who, despite his eccentricities, had excellent manners.

(When he chose to, that was. Bilbo remembered teacups being juggled and was, quite suddenly, less kindly inclined.)

Thorin and his men, however, had no such qualms. They sat around the long table, grumbling over the lack of meat, and growing more and more raucous as the meal went on. Bilbo spent his time crunching nervously through an exotic salad and casting worried glances in Elrond's direction.

Their host, though unruffled, showed no signs of indulgence or amusement in regard to his unruly guests. His eyebrows—impressively arched—lifted a touch higher at each new offense, and at last he rose, tilting his head infinitesimally in Gandalf's direction. "I believe you had a map to show me," he said, low but distinct. "Let us delay no longer."

Thorin, who had been at least feigning indifference to everything Elrond said, stood up as well. "Balin," he said, and without any courteous explanation for Elrond's benefit, joined the lawyer and Gandalf on their way out of the dining room.

At the door, Gandalf turned back. "Come along, Bilbo," he said, with a kindly twinkle in his eye. "You'll be better off with us."

Bilbo padded along after them, glad to be free of the clamor around the table.

As they closed the door behind them, a rollicking song burst out.

Gandalf mopped his brow with a large handkerchief. "I do apologize, Elrond. They—"

"They are men," Thorin interrupted, eyes hard. "And they act like it."

If Elrond was irritated by the insult, he did not show it. He turned to Gandalf. "Worry not. Only—I hope you will forgive me, Mithrandir, for using my very worst china."

Bilbo's own eyebrows went up at that, and he quickly tried to recall if the china had been anything less than perfect. He had not much time to mull over it, however, for Elrond, with a faint smile, had resumed walking down the hall, with an easy, gliding stride.

He led them into a paneled office, with mahogany, inlaid furniture, and a great triptych of a window. The glass panes were luminescent in the moonlight—the days were getting longer, but they had dined late.

Elrond beckoned them to be seated. Thorin and Balin complied rather stiffly, but Gandalf made himself quite comfortable in a plush armchair. "Now, Thorin," he said. "If you will show Elrond the map—"

"I'm not in the habit of handing important documents to lawyers." Thorin was almost sneering, and Bilbo shut his eyes briefly.

_Well,_ he thought. _This is off to a marvelous start._

Gandalf's eyes burned as fiercely as coals. "The great number of people who want to kill you is less surprising by the minute," he snapped. "Hand it over, and stop being a stubborn—"

Elrond waved a hand. "Mr. Oakenshield's concerns are merited, given his experience," he said, in a level, reasonable tone. "Thorin, if you would show me the map, I will do what I can to help."

Bilbo watched as Thorin took the folded paper from the pocket of his jacket, passing it wordlessly to the lawyer. The look on his face reminded Bilbo suddenly of Kili, when he had rushed to Bilbo's defense in the parking garage.

_Fighting,_ he realized. _Always fighting. _And even though he was still shocked at their bad manners and bad tempers, he felt quite sorry for them.

Elrond unfolded the map carefully and traced his long fingers over it. "There must be something here," he observed, after a moment. He glanced up at Thorin, and his eyes were calm but piercing. "Tell me about your grandfather."

To Bilbo's surprise, Balin was the one to bristle at that, his white brows gathering thunderously. "What kind of—"

Thorin held up a hand, and Balin fell silent. Then Thorin spoke. "What do you want to know?"

Elrond's index finger marked a corner of the map. "Thror wrote this map, did he not? A man who writes maps is, perhaps, a man who likes puzzles."

Something shifted in Thorin's expression. "He loved puzzles," he said, not as sharply. "We all do. It's something of a family trait."

Elrond smiled. "Excellent," he said. "What else?"

"What do you mean?"

"I am not trying to pry," Elrond said. "But if your grandfather meant the puzzle for your father, and for you—I must know what you shared. The sort of thing he would work in cleverly, as puzzlers do."

"He used to take me hiking," Thorin went on, eyes fixed on Elrond, as though he was daring him to question him. "When I was ten, eleven, perhaps. He loved the mountain."

"The mountain." Elrond nodded, turning his attention back to the map. "That is very helpful. Thank you." He was silent for a long moment, and then he nodded, more exuberant than Bilbo had yet seen him. "Ah, yes! Here it is." He tapped a spot on the paper, and Bilbo, craning his neck, could see that it was a small symbol at the base of a drawing of the mountain.

"It is code," Elrond explained, when they had all seen it. "He's written something in invisible ink—Cirth Ithil, probably. It's a good brand, for this sort of thing—they sell ink for those of us codemakers and breakers who want to fancy ourselves professionals."

"How do we read it?" Gandalf inquired, tugging thoughtfully at his beard.

Elrond had risen and was searching through a drawer in his immaculately organized desk. "One needs a special light to read it—something that has electromagnetic radiation with a color temperature approximating that of moonlight." He met their skeptical looks with another of his faint smiles. "The legends of moon runes as a form of secret writing have a popular following, at least among…I suppose you would call them, 'geeks.'" The word sounded strange in his refined voice, Bilbo thought. Elrond opened another drawer. "As an aspiring amateur myself, I collect such odds and ends." He held up something that looked like a slim flashlight. "This is it."

He shut off the main lights, returned to the gathering of chairs, and picked up the map again. "Reveal your secrets," he murmured, and the light fell upon the paper.

Bilbo inhaled sharply, as a few lines of text, glistening silver, appeared in the formerly blank spaces. Elrond's eyes narrowed as he read. "_Five feet high the door and three may walk abreast_," he said.

"The vault, must be," Balin said, very low, and then Elrond continued.

"There's only three other words. _Gray stone,_ and _Thrush_." He lifted his eyes to Thorin. "Do these things mean anything to you?"

Bilbo thought that Thorin had gone paler, but he only shrugged. "Perhaps," was all he would say in answer. "Is there nothing else?"

"Not by this light," said Elrond, handing him the map. Thorin tucked it in his pocket, and they all stood up.

"Thank you," Gandalf said sincerely, clapping Elrond on the shoulder. Thorin did not say anything, but he nodded civilly enough, and made for the door with Balin behind him.

"Thorin," Elrond called out. "Wait."

Thorin turned, shoulders stiffening.

To Bilbo's eye, Elrond's face had not changed, but in his gaze, even in the darkness, there seemed to be something almost pained. "I know that your mission is not one to be dismissed or belittled," he said. "But these are—uncertain times. The darkness that has plagued us all, in its own ways, has, I fear, grown greater. You have encountered it already, on this quest. As for continuing—there are some who would not deem it wise."

Any openness in the lay of Thorin's features shuttered closed. "I am grateful for your assistance in this matter," he ground out, "Though in truth I think Gandalf told you far more than you needed to know. But I did not come seeking your counsel, nor shall I leave with it." He squared his shoulders and strode out of the room.

Bilbo heard Elrond sigh.


	6. in the vast ignorance of the world

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! Keep them up! I truly enjoying hearing your perspectives. Hopefully this chapter continues to satisfy!**

_"If what you say is true, the world is in grave danger."_

_i._

A week had come and gone, but Bilbo had not yet tired of Rivendell. Far from it! In a private aside, Elrond had told him to make free use of the libraries, vast as they were.

"You, I think, will return my books in good condition," he had said, and Bilbo had nodded gravely.

"At my home, sir, books are sacred."

Elrond had laughed at that. "They are indeed—yet not untouchable. They were made to be loved—to be studied, so that we may know them as friends." His height and manner were no longer so intimidating to Bilbo, though they still commanded respect. "In my younger days, I thought I might be a writer. There are so many stories, aching to be told."

"I know exactly what you mean," Bilbo had said, forgetting his shyness still further in his excitement. "I have often thought that I would like to write a book—an adventure story, but my life was always…" He still missed it too much to call it dull, but the word seemed to be growing more and more apt. "It was always a quiet sort. Until now," he had added, a trifle ruefully.

Elrond had clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed him seriously. "You'll have a tale or to tell when you come back," he had remarked, and the words stayed with Bilbo long after.

On the eighth day, he sat on the third-floor balcony, tangling his fingers carefully in the tough vines that twisted through the latticed roof and walls. They were growing greener by the day—May was almost here.

_To think,_ Bilbo thought, _that taking up with such a rakish crowd would bring me to this place._ His father's penchant for good furnishings was nothing, compared with Elrond's dignified opulence.

And the grounds—Bilbo never frowned upon a good walking party, and Rivendell's vistas were even more delightful up close. He could not convince some of the men to venture out with him, but Fili and Kili loved scrambling over rocks, and a few of the others would occasionally join in.

"We've always lived in the city," Kili told him one day, perching on a mossy log. "Most we got outside was a ratty old park."

"You loved that ratty old park," Fili said, elbowing him. "Used to beg Mum to take you there every day."

Bilbo had smiled at that, remembering a more solitary childhood. He had been quiet, and content in his parents' company—but now he was beginning to wonder if it would have been nicer to have a sibling. Fili and Kili were practically inseparable.

Where they were now, as he breathed in the sweet morning air, he did not know. Probably still in bed—they were fond of sleeping late—or downstairs in the kitchen contributing to the general hullaballoo that was breakfast.

"Why do you think Elrond puts up with us?" Bilbo asked, in a low voice, as Gandalf joined him on the balcony.

"He's a good man," Gandalf said. "An explanation, I might add, that I have given to Thorin a hundred times if I've given it once."

"Thorin doesn't seem to trust anyone," Bilbo said, staring out over the valley. "Sometimes I think he's forgotten how."

But Gandalf shook his head. "Forgotten? Not at all. He knows exactly what it feels like to trust—that's why he won't let himself consider it, even for a second. He's too afraid." He looked down at Bilbo with a keen gaze. "I was right to enlist you in this little expedition, Bilbo Baggins. You're like no one he's ever met before, nor may ever meet again. You could be a friend to him, in a time of need."

Bilbo was shocked. "Me? A friend to Thorin? He doesn't even think I belong here!"

"Our journey is far from over," Gandalf reminded him. "There will be plenty of opportunities for you to prove yourself, I assure you."

"I certainly hope not!" Bilbo was rather alarmed at the prospect, so Gandalf only smiled knowingly and said no more.

After a short pause, Bilbo tilted his head. "Did you hear that?" The grind of gravel under wheels could be heard far up the long drive, and in a few moments, an impossibly sleek silver car pulled into view.

"Good heavens!" Bilbo cried, jumping to his feet. "It's a Lamborghini!" He turned to Gandalf. "In my—well, I suppose when I was a silly teenager, I used to imagine that I'd drive one of those. After I was a famous artist, of course."

Gandalf's smile widened. "I don't know how well it would suit you," he observed mildly, and Bilbo nodded in resigned agreement.

The door of the car lifted up like a wing, and the driver stepped out. Bilbo's eyes widened. She was tall for a woman, even excluding the addition of her very high heels, which glinted in the sunlight. She was dressed all in white—a slim pencil skirt and a perfectly tailored blazer—and Bilbo could see gems sparkling at her wrist and throat, even from many yards away.

"Who in the world is that?" he asked, mouth agape.

Gandalf seemed suddenly preoccupied—smoothing down his ascot and tidying his beard. "Dr. Galadriel Felagund," he said briskly. "She is a member of the White Council Law Firm, and teaches at the University of Lothlorien."

"And what is she—" Bilbo began, but Gandalf was already striding rapidly away, leaving him still looking over the rail.

The lady below glanced up, meeting his eyes with a gaze that rooted him to the spot. Her golden hair, twisted smoothly up, was radiant, and Bilbo felt as though he were looking upon a vision, rather than an academic lawyer.

_You get sillier every day, Bilbo Baggins_, he scolded himself, but for the first time in a long time, he felt the need to write a poem.

_ii._

"Dwalin thinks we're getting soft," Kili said, skipping a pebble across the stream. "He wants us to start training again."

Fili searched for a flat stone in the shallows. "Well, after last week, I guess I see the point of it."

They'd grown up doing push-ups in the cramped living room of their apartment, while Uncle Thorin or Dwalin or sometimes even Balin timed them with a watch. Chin-ups at the playground, sparring matches before bed.

Dis had never liked it much. Kili hadn't really known what it was for, even though he excelled at the shooting range. As for Fili, well, _you're the oldest_ was what it had come down to, as usual. Thorin had little in the material way to pass on, but he could hand down the weight of history and the burdensome knowledge of long-festering wrongs.

_We're going back there someday,_ he would say. _You need to be ready_.

So Fili worked—harder than Kili, at least in spirit—to be strong and agile and good in a fight, even if it made Mum's lips pinch tight together. Neither of them were bulked-up and massive like Dwalin—Kili, especially, had always been on the slight side—but Fili wasn't without hope that one day he would achieve Uncle Thorin's broad shoulders.

He let the stone in his hand fly free, and it skimmed smoothly along a few times before sinking into the swirling current of the stream.

"Five," Kili said. "Not bad." He leaned back against a sun-warmed rock, basking like a sleepy cat. "I wish this counted for training."

"I can see Ori skipping stones as his weapon of choice," Fili admitted, grinning.

"Nah, I don't know. He's probably have, like, a slingshot or something." Kili sat up. "We should buy him one. When's his birthday?"

Fili shrugged. "No idea." He glanced at his watch. "It's almost noon. We should probably head up. You know, lunch."

"Yeah." Kili rose and stretched, then scrabbled in his pocket for another stone. "When do you think Uncle Thorin will want to leave?"

Fili squinted. The sun was bright on the water. "I don't know. As soon as that FBI agent has finished with all of our statements. He's kind of taking his time."

"There are a lot of us," Kili pointed out. "But maybe he doesn't want to let us out of his jurisdiction. Probably wants to dig up something nefarious."

"Then why not just keep us in custody?" Fili asked skeptically, as they picked their way across the shallow part of the inlet.

"He has a secret deal with Elrond. One fed to another," Kili intoned dramatically.

"Lawyers aren't feds."

"They're all cut from the same cloth, and you know it."

Fili wasn't sure about that—Elrond seemed very different from Agent Lindir, but he didn't see the point of saying so.

Lunch was filling, if still spare of any meat—Kili murmured his longing for sausages, but Fili didn't think it was terrible. Three square meals a day, and sunshine on the river—

"There'll be a cost, no doubt about it," Dwalin muttered, taking an aggressive bite out of an apple. "I don't care who he is; no man puts up with this many guests for a week and takes no charge."

"Are we testing him?" Fili asked. He wasn't even sure if he meant to be sarcastic or not. "Seeing how far we can push him before he'll demand we fork over our souls, or whatever?"

Dwalin glared at him. "Of course we are, lad. We need to see what he's made of."

Fili only raised his eyebrows at that, and excused himself. His brother was still eating, but he wanted to walk through the library again. His conversation with Kili at the river had reminded him—they wouldn't be here long. Thorin would want to move on.

It was quiet, and surprisingly free from dust. But there was an age-old scent of books, secret and inviting. Fili reached out a tentative hand towards a volume bound in green and gold.

"Are you fond of poetry?"

He snatched back his hand as though he had been burned and turned sharply, almost defensively, towards the speaker.

It was a woman—he had known that by the soft, though resonant voice—but he never recalled seeing her here before.

"I'm Dr. Galadriel Felagund," she said, extending a slender hand. He took it, because there seemed nothing else to do. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "But please. Call me Galadriel."

"I'm Fili," he said, a trifle jerkily. "Fili—Oakenshield."

She smiled, and her bright, searching eyes grew brighter still. "Is that your _real_ name?"

"Is that any of your business?" he retorted, and felt his face go hot at his own insolence.

But Galadriel merely laughed quietly. "Only if you make it so," she said. She was taller than he was, in her high-heeled shoes, and dressed in an immaculately white suit. "Elrond told me he had guests, but I have yet to meet any but you."

He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't even know who she was, and though she was far from old she made him feel like a child.

Galadriel lifted the book of poetry from the shelf. "Do you read a great deal, Fili?"

He chewed his lip before answering. "A bit. Novels, mostly."

"I teach law," she said, turning the pages with graceful fingers. "But at my university, there is a professor across the hall—he teaches mythology. Sometimes I like to listen to his lectures. Stories are often much more interesting than rules."

"You—uh, you work with Elrond, then?" he asked. God help him if Uncle Thorin or Dwalin came in, to find him conversing with a lady lawyer. It wasn't what it looked like, anyway—she was gorgeous, sure, but he wouldn't even dream of flirting with her.

_I'd probably end up dead,_ he thought, and then realized that she had been speaking again.

"I do work with Elrond occasionally," she was saying. "We are part of the same firm, and I am here on—business, actually. I know you must think it curious, my seeming familiarity, but I am good friends with one of your companions."

"Who?" Fili asked, in utter confusion. He couldn't imagine any of his uncle's men being acquainted with her.

"Gandalf," she said. "And I was speaking with him, before lunch, about everyone he brought here. Now—if your name is Oakenshield, then you must be some relative to Thorin."

He should clam up now, Fili thought, and not disclose anything. But as mysterious as she was, she didn't seem like a threat. "Thorin's our uncle."

"Our?" She closed the book gently. "Do you have a brother?"

"Yes."

"Younger?"

He nodded.

She smiled again, quite warmly, at that. "Then you are an older brother. I myself was the youngest, and my older brothers were—well, they got into all sorts of trouble. But I loved them dearly." She laced her fingers together. There was a ring on one of them, an intricate flower of white gold, set with diamonds. Fili couldn't even begin to guess at the cost.

"My brother and I are close," he said, feeling decidedly shabby beside her.

"I'm sure you look after him very well," she said. Her gaze was unwavering, and demanding, but kind. "If what Gandalf tells me comes to pass, you will have many opportunities to continuing doing so." She reached up, tucking a golden strand behind her ear. "I hope you remember to look after yourself, too."

"I'll try, ma'am," Fili said, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. When he looked up next, she was gone. He blinked in the empty room. Her shoes hadn't even made a sound.

_iii._

Agent Lindir came and went as he always did, questioning a few with his thin smiles and bland stares.

"He's keeping us here," Balin said, and Thorin was inclined to agree. Gandalf's connection to the lawyer had been enough to grant them respite from harsher scrutiny, but Agent Lindir clearly seemed—intrigued.

For all that Gandalf was at odds with Thorin most of the time, he was in agreement on this point.

"Keeping our calm, and maintaining a consistent story—that's what matters," he said shrewdly, when the week mark of their arrival had passed. "We oughtn't rush out like thieves in the night unless it's absolutely necessary. Let the man finish his little inquisitions. We have time."

But Thorin longed to be gone. The more questions Agent Lindir asked, the more he would find out about their quest. Elrond, in Thorin's opinion, knew far too much already.

"I suppose I owe Nori my thanks," Gandalf murmured, taking a draw of his pipe. They were standing on one of the upstairs balconies, but Thorin would not let himself admire the view, even though the sunset was vibrantly beautiful. "He made quick work of switching out the guns, which helps with my hostages story tremendously."

"Don't thank him yet," Thorin answered grimly. "If we can leave here without him stuffing his pockets full of family heirlooms, you can express your gratitude then."

Gandalf blew a smoke ring, which hovered in the air above their heads. Elrond had said nothing about their habits, although Thorin had begrudgingly accepted that some courtesies prevailed upon him, and so did not smoke in the house.

"I know you are eager to be gone," Gandalf said. "But wait for my signal."

"You have business here, don't you?" Thorin queried sharply.

More smoke rings. Gandalf was hesitating.

Thorin crossed his arms and turned to face him. "You and Elrond and the lady lawyer. You're up to something."

"It does not concern you," Gandalf replied. "Nor does it in any way undermine your plans."

"So you say." Thorin thought back, calling to mind details that he had forgotten in the midst of chaos. "The strange fellow with the van—he gave you something. From Dol Guldur. Have you looked at it?"

Gandalf's face was troubled. "I cannot speak to you of this," he said. "Do not ask me questions." He sighed deeply, and Thorin was suddenly reminded that he was no longer young. "Thorin, Thorin—I am trying to help you, but not _only_ you. I am not plotting against you. There are things at work in this world that pass the distinction of urgency from hand to hand. I must follow such trails, while I can." He pressed a hand on Thorin's shoulder. "Yet I promise you, I will not forget your quest. Indeed, the restoration of Erebor, if it can be accomplished, would do more good than you know."

Thorin did not know quite what to say—a circumstance unusual and unpleasant to him. He cleared his throat. But before he could speak, there were footsteps in the room behind them. One of Elrond's first-year's—in fact, Thorin was quite certain she was one of the same who had been flirting with his nephews some days before—came onto the balcony, smiling apologetically.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Mithrandir," she said. "But—Elrond said to tell you that the representatives from the Isengard office are here, and Saruman is asking to see you."

If Thorin saw rightly, Gandalf nearly blanched at the news. But in a moment the old man smiled, with his usual charm. "Thank you," he said. "I will be right down."

She hurried away, and Gandalf glanced at Thorin, with a grave look. "You, at least, will be glad for this news," he said. "Saruman is one of the most powerful lawyers in this firm—and, well, a few words on this will suffice. If he hears word of your plans, he will disapprove most utterly. In fact, I think he will do everything he can to stop you." He paused, shaking his head. "I did not think he would come," he said. "But he has—"

Thorin felt his pulse quicken. "Well? What are you suggesting?"

"You leave." Gandalf's eyes flickered. "Tonight."

_iv._

"Gandalf. What an honor to see you again, my old friend."

There was no insult in the words, at least, but the tone—

Gandalf forced a smile, and bowed slightly. "Saruman," he said.

The man smiled in return, though his dark, deep-set eyes betrayed no signs of warmth. "It does not seem so long ago that we were mere boys, in those first years of law school," he said, lifting one of Elrond's delicate coffee cups to his lips. His hair was white, but his beard, unlike Gandalf's, was neatly kept.

"It has been several decades," Gandalf said, with a cordiality he was far from feeling.

"The first of your many near-careers," Saruman mused indulgently. "Yet you have never cut your ties with this firm, to be sure."

"Nor would we wish him to," came Galadriel's clear voice. She laid a hand on Saruman's arm. "What a rare occasion, for you to come from Isengard!"

"I would not have thought it right to stay away," Saruman rejoined loftily. "Elrond tells me that there is much of which we must speak."

"Indeed," Elrond agreed, joining them. "Please, let us all be comfortable. This will be a long conversation." His eyebrows drew together pensively, and then he began. "I don't have to remind you of the details of the Alliance case."

Gandalf remembered. Some years ago, Elendil, a city police chief, had sought to vanquish the druglord Sauron once and for all. Sauron, not content with buying and selling illegal substances and distributing them among the underbelly of the city's social world, had taken to biological terrorism as a means of intimidating any possible opponents. The White Council Law Firm had been intimately involved in the legal workings of the case, and though Sauron had never been captured, his operation had been utterly dismantled.

"The Alliance case is long since settled," Saruman said, with a dismissive gesture. "His formulas and resources were destroyed."

Galadriel lifted a hand. "Let Elrond speak."

"We had believed it so," Elrond continued, as though the words weighed heavy upon them. "But there are rumors that Sauron's influence is rising again. That new politician in the Dol Guldur region in particular must be carefully watched."

Saruman huffed out a breath impatiently. "He is little more than an underhanded fool."

"I fear not," Gandalf interjected, deeming it the right time to divulge his own information. "On my way here, I encountered Radagast—"

Saruman scoffed. "Radagast! Do not speak to me of Radagast. The man has nothing more than conspiracy theories under that dreadful hat of his."

One of Galadriel's eyebrows arched in something too elegant to be irritation. "What did Radagast tell you, Mithrandir?"

"He spoke to me of the Greenwood," Gandalf replied. "How there is poisonous waste, and general unrest. You know how close it is to Dol Guldur—"

"We all live a stone's throw from unsavory places," Saruman interrupted. "A distasteful neighbor is hardly cause for alarm."

Galadriel folded her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on Gandalf. "What did he give you?"

Gandalf drew it forth from his coat, holding it with care. "It is a vial of the chemicals he found near Rhosgobel," he said, laying it on the table between them. "I have smelled it, and it is as he said. I would know it anywhere. It is the foul stench of the Mordor poison."

"Sauron's weapon," Galadriel breathed. "He developed many strains—to enslave, to numb. To kill. It was a cruel thing."

Saruman was silent, his dark brows lowering.

"If this is being made again," Elrond said, "We must act. If Sauron seeks once more to rise to power—there is no telling what damage he could wreak. And he is clever. He could create an identity for himself wherever he wished, for as you all well know, no one has seen his face."

"No one living," Galadriel agreed, and another silence fell.

Saruman broke it. "A nasty smell, and the ramblings of a fellow who lives for such excitement as much as he does for mushrooms. That is all the proof we have."

"Yet you will not deny, I think, that it is a serious matter." Elrond had risen and was pacing about the room. "Other claims rest upon you, Mithrandir—but I promise you we will not be idle on this score."

"No indeed," Galadriel agreed. "When we know more, we will call another meeting, and choose the course of action, as wise as we have the power to make it."

"I can agree to that," Saruman conceded, and then his sharp gaze was on Gandalf again. "But you—these 'other claims' Elrond speaks of. Have they anything to do with the ramshackle gang of mountain men I encountered as I came in?"

"They are only guests," Elrond answered, after a swift exchange of glances with Gandalf.

Saruman steepled his fingers together. "One of them looked remarkably like a Durin." He lifted an eyebrow. "This wouldn't have to do with any of the nonsense surrounding the event of Thror Durin's death, would it?"

_Damn it all,_ thought Gandalf, and forced another of those smiles that were so successful at convincing everyone but those in the room with him. "As you know, Saruman, I avoid all nonsense on principle."

"That doesn't answer the question," Saruman parried, his lips thinning. "If I have reason to think—"

There was a sudden, urgent knock at the door, cutting him off. Elrond opened it, revealing a thin man in a pinstriped suit. "Agent Lindir!"

"Pardon my intrusion, sir," the agent said, with a summary nod to the others in the room. "It is just—I stopped by this evening to speak with the rest of the men, but they have all disappeared!"

Gandalf stifled a sigh of relief with the utmost difficulty. In this instance, at least, Thorin could be wholly relied upon.

"Disappeared?" Elrond exclaimed. "It cannot be—"

Gandalf took care to feign shock, especially since Agent Lindir seemed skeptical, and Saruman was decidedly peeved. He was an accomplished actor, if he did make such a claim himself, but he found that the ruse was not an easy one, this time. Across the table, he saw Galadriel smiling.

"What a curious chance," she murmured, and Gandalf could not meet her eyes.

_v._

"We must have come at least five miles," Kili whispered, and ahead of him, he saw the shape of Fili's shoulders lift in a shrug.

"I don't know. I haven't been counting."

They'd been walking for hours. The first part of the "great escape," as Kili had named it, had at least been interesting—scaling down the lattice of Elrond's elaborate walls, as though they were bandits. But after that it had been a long way of sneaking down the valley, and then into the woods beyond—for they did not yet dare make for the road.

Why they were leaving so secretively, Kili did not know for certain. He only knew that Gandalf had ordered it, because that was the answer Thorin had given to a rather petulant Mr. Baggins, and Thorin, even in his most stubborn moments, did not lie.

Gandalf had told them to go and they had gone.

Kili missed his comfortable bed already.

As it was, they had very little by way of luggage. Thorin said he had a bit of money, and he knew the rest of them did too, for all their complaints to the contrary.

"We'll get to a town as quick as we can, wire some more in," he had said.

"What about our cars?" someone asked. Kili was pretty sure it was Dori. Again.

Gandalf had promised he would manage it, and Thorin claimed he was certain he would.

"It will be hard going for a while, men," he said, when they reached the top of a particularly steep hillock, "But all will be well before long. We must reach High Pass, the city in the Misty Mountains, as quick as we can. We will wait there for Gandalf."

When Thorin was speaking with such grand simplicity, no one argued. But Kili thought that the prospect of walking all the way from Rivendell to High Pass was a gloomy one for certain, and he missed the comforting assurance of Gandalf's knowledge and ingenuity.

Kili took a few more steps, then glanced over his shoulder to see that Bilbo had paused, looking back. There was still a glimpse of Elrond's valley to be seen through the trees, far in the distance.

"Bilbo," Kili said, very quietly. "You'll see it again. I truly think you will."

Bilbo's smile was a bit watery, but Kili didn't point it out. "But will I see it with such wonder and fear combined in my heart? Moments pass as permanently as people do."

Kili blinked. "Well, that's awfully poetic of you."

Bilbo's cheeks flushed. "My mother was a poet," he said modestly.

"Really?" Kili grinned. "My mother's a waitress. But she wasn't always."

"Bilbo! Kili!" Thorin called from ahead, impatience apparent in his tone. "We don't have all night."

"Guess we'd better go," Kili sighed, clapping a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. He hadn't known the little man very long at all, but he'd come to like him quite well. _Someone, at least, who gets scolded by Uncle as often as I do_, he thought, and then chided himself for the selfish thought.

"What about you?" Bilbo asked, after they had walked some way further. He was a bit out of breath—not quite used to so much walking, Kili thought, no matter what he said.

"What about me?"

"Will you see Rivendell again? I mean, would you want to?"

Kili smiled at the memory of sun on the water, and smooth rocks skipping over silver ripples. How Fili's eyes had lighted up at the sight of the library.

"I'd like to," he admitted, low enough that there wasn't even a chance of Uncle Thorin overhearing. "But who knows?"


	7. when the road darkens

**A/N: I am so sorry for this belated chapter! I just took the LSAT, for Law School (prospectively) and it was quite an ordeal! So I have been a bit slow on writing. I hope that this chapter is enjoyable, despite the wait, and I will try to be more prompt in future! Thanks always for the lovely feedback!**

_"'Go back?' he thought. 'No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!'"_

_i._

Of course it had to be raining. They'd had precious little luck, so far, and none of Bofur's usual optimism was sufficient to convince him that things were improving.

"You look glum," Nori said, kicking off his wet boots on the threadbare carpet.

Bofur shrugged, shaking out his hat. They'd found another hotel room—no roaches, this time—but it was crammed full of wet, generally unhappy men. He thought of his toy-shop—dim-windowed, with the bolts closed over the door and dust gathering on the windowsills—and tugged forlornly at the end of his mustache. "I'll admit, I miss Rivendell," he muttered, low enough that Dwalin couldn't hear. Thorin was downstairs paying, so he was safe on that score.

Nori grinned reminiscently, teeth surprisingly white and even against his thin, scarred face. "We gave them a hell of a time."

"That we did," Bofur agreed. "And no meat, besides! Not that we've had any since."

Nori nodded, and Bofur lost himself in reveries for a moment. It had been three days since they had left Rivendell, and though they'd reached High Pass—by walking and hitchhiking and an ill-fated stint on a Greyhound bus—there was still no sign of Gandalf.

_I'd feel a mite safer with him around,_ Bofur mused, but he kept the thought to himself. It was no secret that High Pass was a dangerous city—full of odd folk—yet there was nothing to be gained by bemoaning that fact aloud. Instead, he appealed to his brother.

"Bombur! Any sandwiches?"

Bombur, taciturn as usual, only shook his head in answer. He, too, must be missing the comforts of their brief resting place—

_They'd think you a bloody traitor, cozying up with lawyers_. Bofur shook his head. It wasn't that—it was only that he felt a gnawing sense of doubt, as they huddled together in the little room—less than two weeks, and they'd already gotten in so much trouble.

Some of them, he knew, didn't have much to leave behind. Nori would be glad to start a new life; Balin and Dwalin, it was well known, followed the Durins wherever they went. But Bofur—his brother was close by, and even if their shops were small, they were content.

_So why are you here?_ The question rang accusingly in his head, and he twisted his still damp hat in his hands. There were reasons, even though they seemed distant now. His father had not survived the winter journey from Erebor in search of a new home, those years ago, and even Bombur, complacent with his pastries, had longed to avenge his name.

Bofur told himself firmly that he had a duty, claims that came above comfort and security—and shouldn't he look to little Mr. Baggins? The man had come along on this wild adventure without even knowing any of them. Sometimes Bofur marveled at it—when he'd first met him, he'd thought him a rather mousey sort—but Rivendell had brought out a happier side of Mr. Baggins, and Bofur had grown to like him quite well.

If a stock painter who had hung doilies over every possible chair in his house could face such uncertainty, surely, a toymaker could as well. Furthermore, Bofur knew that, despite the rain, and sandwiches or no, it fell to him to lighten the hearts of all.

With a final wrench of his wet hat, he rose to his feet. "How about a song, men?" he cried, and although some of them glared at him, he thought that it might have come off well enough had Thorin not chosen that moment to return.

The lines of his shoulders were as proud as ever, but Bofur had a feeling that his heavy frown boded no good.

"We're leaving," Thorin said curtly, confirming the feeling. "The room is more expensive than I had thought."

A ripple of disbelief ran through the company.

"But the money," Gloin returned, his cheeks reddening to match his full beard. "We wired out enough money back at—"

"Not enough," Thorin interrupted, grimmer still. "Feeding and transporting fourteen men has a way of depleting resources rather quickly. And we cannot risk it again here. Such transactions are easily traced by those who know where to look. They may already be closing in as we speak."

"Where will we go?" Balin asked, calmly enough.

Thorin's jaw was set, inexorable. "Gather your packs. We'll have to walk from here."

_ii._

He was losing them.

Men were not metal, to be shaped and twisted, or wood, to be hammered into place. They were like fire—flickers of loyalty, ardent promises, and smoldering, waning coals, blinking out into darkness.

It was raining, and he did not know how to rekindle them.

Putting metaphor aside—no grand speech would help him now—Thorin busied himself in the packing up, the division of luggage. Ordinarily, he considered himself above such bustle. The leader. But at the moment he couldn't risk alienating himself from his men any further.

The thin roll of money in his pocket mocked him—_not enough, not enough_. He had thought that they might make it, might just scrape by until Gandalf returned. But the truth was, his own accounts were draining dry.

And accounts were too easily tracked—

They slipped out of the hotel in a straggling train, tugging at already wet jackets. It was still raining, little more than a steady, sullen drizzle, but enough to drag their spirits even lower.

"I'm cold," Thorin heard Kili say, and he didn't even make out Fili's answering murmur, because Frerin flashed through his mind—sixteen, ripped jeans, mumbling "I'm cold—I'm hungry—I'm tired" in what seemed like an unceasing current of complaint to the responsible eighteen-year-old. It had grated so much on Thorin's nerves until the day—

Until there was silence, pounding at his ears like the heart that would never beat again.

He rode the wave of memory out, ground his teeth, and quickened the pace. They were weaving around cracked garbage bins, some spilling soggy refuse into the street, and an ever-present stream of people. High Pass was busy, even in bad weather.

The hotel Thorin had chosen was on the fringe of a reasonably respectable area, but considering their price range, it was only logical to take a less reputable route. The crowds grew less accommodating—he found himself jostled and shoved, and had to bite back the urge to shove back, cautioning the men to stick close. They didn't need to call attention to themselves.

"Will Gandalf know where to meet us?"

Mr. Baggins, it seemed, always had a question. The man had been little but a nuisance, and once again, Thorin found himself resenting Gandalf's choice.

"He's clever," he answered abruptly. "He'll figure it out."

Bilbo sunk back, and Thorin squared his shoulders, seeking out some prospect of lodgings in a thickening array of clubs and bars.

Traffic was heavy. They crossed over several streets, and Bombur was nearly hit by a taxi. Thorin growled out a few words of warning, and they went on. It was edging towards evening, and though the neon lights blurred brighter amid the rain, Thorin dreaded the prospect of navigating the streets in the dark.

He pushed his wet hair off his forehead, vainly searching again for even the seediest of motels.

"Thorin."

Dwalin had come up beside him, relinquishing his self-appointed position of rearguard.

"What is it?"

Dwalin jerked his head towards the road. "Look."

Thorin did. Amid the sluggish traffic, a string of black SUVs were creeping towards them. It could be a coincidence, of course, but—

Thorin's mouth went dry. "Have they seen us?"

Dwalin shook his head. "Not that I can tell. But chances are, they're looking."

_iii._

Fili felt a trickle of ice down his spine far colder than the clammy touch of the rain. He had followed the sharp tilt of Thorin's gaze, had seen the ominous dark shapes among the traffic.

_How did they—_

It was a question he could not really answer. He knew little of the men following them except that they were ruthless and well-trained. Balin's story of almost two weeks ago notwithstanding, they remained shadowy and threatening, a danger he couldn't really quantify.

Not that that made them any less real.

He nudged Kili's shoulder. "Keep your head down."

Kili was already pale, and shivering, and he went paler. Fili clenched his teeth. It wasn't supposed to be like this—his first instinct had been right, they shouldn't have let Kili come—

"Uncle Thorin has a plan, I'm sure," he said, doing his best to sound reassuring. "It's just—a nasty part of the city, that's all."

"I _see_ them, Fili. You don't have to treat me like a child." His brother's voice was unusually grim. "It's like Uncle Thorin said. They probably traced the bank withdrawals, and followed us here."

"At least we're in a crowd."

Kili snorted softly. "C'mon, bro. Like this crowd is going to lend a helping hand."

Fili didn't answer. It was true—the passerby were rough and unfriendly, and who knew that some of them might not be spies? He felt a sickness settling in his stomach. Reassuring Kili was his usual comfort, and now he had failed at that, too.

Up ahead, Thorin was moving more quickly. He was looking for a side-street, but none was forthcoming—and the whole company kept pressing closer together, panic rising in the ranks.

All progress slowed to a halt a few paces ahead—there was a thick knot of people crowded around the entrance of a large, thick-walled building. A club, Fili thought, though he wasn't sure. It was getting dark, and he couldn't see the sign from where he was standing.

"Let's get inside," Thorin's voice grated, close by, and Fili did his best to weave his way into the tight crowd. They didn't seem to be particularly welcoming, but as long as he stayed close by Kili—

Muscling their way into the crowd had seemed hard enough, but once they had mingled with the slow-moving mass, it was impossible to get out again. Fili grabbed Kili's sleeve, as he had when they were children, and for once, his little brother didn't shrug him off.

He saw Thorin's silhouette in the doorway—then he was gone, and then Fili and Kili were pushed in after him.

The pulsing beat that had been barely perceptible in the noise and bustle outside swelled to fill his ears now. The air was thick and heavy, and except for the blinding slash of the strobe lights, it was dark.

Close by, Dwalin muttered an oath. "Thorin!" he shouted, above the din. "We'd best be out of here."

"What is it?"

"It's the Thunder Giants!"

Fili knew the name. They were a heavy-metal rock band, known for their chaotic concerts and the violent audiences they drew. A few years ago, Kili had been obsessed with them, during the height of his rocker stage. Of course, Mum had never let either of them go to a concert, even when they played in Ered Luin—

_If Mum could see us now_, Fili thought, glancing vainly towards the slit of light through the door. He'd never been really claustrophobic, but everyone around him seemed larger in the dark. He tried to tighten his grip on Kili—_stay close—_

The music blasted louder, and up on a stage, some yards away, Fili saw the performance—lots of hair-flipping and what looked like some mock-fighting, in between riffs—but he wasn't interested in it at all, except for wishing that it would _stop_. His ears ached from the throbbing beat, and what little he could see was fuzzy, bouncing back and forth. Too much movement. Too many people.

They had to get out of there, Dwalin had said. He couldn't find Dwalin, at the moment, and they weren't any closer to getting out. Fili strained his neck, trying to catch sight of Thorin, and in that moment, a lumbering barrel of a man barged in between him and Kili—

He cried out, not loud enough. The link was broken—he'd lost hold of Kili. It was dark, and loud, and there were so many bodies pressing together—_people got trampled at these things—_

Fili panicked. If he was freaking out, Kili must be hitting the roof. It had always been there, that unspoken knowledge—_stick together—_and Mum had never needed to scold over it. He couldn't lose Kili, not ever, and not _here_, with the horrible shrieking music and the crushing surge of humanity suffocating them.

He flailed blindly, slamming his weight against the nearest of the throng, trying to break through. He wasn't sure, even afterwards, how much time passed—all he knew then was that he wasn't making much headway, and that once, he got punched for his troubles. It was a nightmare, pushing helplessly against the swarming blackness—

"Fili." His uncle's voice was steady and calm in his ear, and he felt the familiar heavy clamp of a hand on his shoulder. "Come on."

"But Kili—" The words rasped out, barely audible, but Thorin heard them.

"Your brother is here."

And he was, practically tucked under Thorin's other arm—looking a bit bedraggled, but safe.

_Safe._

Fili thought he should have known. Sometimes, it was hard to follow his uncle's commands. But when it came to Kili, they were never out of sync.

"We've found a back door," Thorin told them. He seemed unfazed by the whirl of chaos around them. He was speaking loudly, above the clamor, but his voice had not risen in pitch. "Stay close, and follow me."

Fili obeyed.

The crowd didn't exactly part around them, but Thorin forged ahead, and they were soon near to a door that Fili had not seen before. As Thorin set his hand to it, Dwalin's voice growled nearby.

"Thorin. We've lost the damn burglar."

Fili heard Thorin curse under his breath. "Stay with the lads," he told Dwalin, and stormed—that was the only real description—off into the teeming throng.

_iv._

Well, they had something else not to tell Mum.

Kili blinked in the half-light outside—it was past dusk, but much brighter outside the concert. He was shaking, he realized, and tried to steady himself. Thorin couldn't know that he'd been—afraid.

He hadn't been at first, even though he'd been well aware that High Pass made Ered Luin look almost prim and proper. It had been only when Fili was wrenched from him, when he couldn't see anyone he knew—couldn't reach his _brother—_

He chewed his lip, took a breath. They were all out safely into the rain again, in another unfamiliar alley, and it seemed somehow more pleasant than it had a few moments before.

Poor Bilbo had had rather a time of it. Thorin had found him floundering amid the crush of the audience, and had dragged him to safety, but it was clear from the set of Thorin's jaw that he was not in a sympathetic mood.

"We should have left him at the lawyer's," he said audibly to Dwalin, and Kili saw Bilbo's shoulders slump.

"You alright?" he asked, in a friendly tone. He was much younger than the man, but sometimes he wondered if this was how Fili felt, looking after a little brother.

"Thank you, I'm quite fine," Bilbo answered, but he wouldn't meet Kili's gaze.

Thorin had moved ahead, leading once more, and Kili wondered dully if they would find shelter soon. His clothes were soaked through, and the air was getting colder. Beside him, Ori coughed.

"What about that warehouse?" Nori asked. "Could be empty, this time of night."

Thorin paused, but his eyes narrowed. "Or it couldn't. Warehouses in the slums are seldom unoccupied."

"It's worth a shot," Bofur interjected, tilting his head so that a rivulet of water poured out of his hat. "We're drenched! And darn hungry."

Thorin folded his arms, considering. At last he nodded curtly. "Dwalin, Nori, take a look."

They waited while Dwalin, the strongest, and Nori, the stealthiest (unless one took Mr. Baggins' burgeoning burgling skills into account, which few did) surveyed the battered gray building. They checked windows first, disappearing into the darkness, and at last Kili heard the creak of a door. Footsteps, and silence.

Finally they appeared out of the gloom. "S'all clear," Nori said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Dry, too, and not too much of a mess."

"Thank heavens," Dori exclaimed, and before Thorin could deny them entrance, the greater part of the company had rushed through the door.

Kili followed a bit more slowly, waiting for his brother to fall into step with him. Fili's hair was tangled and dripping, but his hand was warm on Kili's shoulder.

"I thought I lost you there, for a minute," he murmured. His tone was light, but it didn't fool Kili.

"I'm fine. Promise."

"I know. It's just—"

Fili would probably have nightmares tonight, Kili thought, and then feel terrible about it. Fili had always been the more restless sleeper, and he hated himself for it; something about older brothers not having the right to cause trouble.

_Doesn't have a problem causing trouble by day,_ Kili thought fondly, and leaned into his brother's brief half-hug.

Dry though it was, the air was not really any warmer. Thorin would not even brook the thought of a fire, indoors, and so they had to make do with their sodden jackets.

"Bedding's still pretty dry," Fili said, more cheerfully, as Balin handed out the luggage. They had managed to pick up a few things with the wired-in money that was now running so low, and somehow, the larger part had made it through the Thunder Giants escapade.

Kili spread as many of his damp outer layers as he could out to dry, and wrapped himself in the fleece blanket Fili handed him. The food was simple, and he longed for something hot—even some of Elrond's interminable vegetables—but it was filling, and as the conversation grew more comfortable, he almost felt content.

Thorin, however, still seemed uneasy. He paced the length of the long room, brows together, and his fingers toyed with a cigarette that Kili imagined was too wet to light.

"You should get some sleep," Fili said, though his gaze, too, was fixed on Thorin. "Who knows what tomorrow will bring."

Kili flopped down, grimacing a bit at the concrete floor that bit through his bedding. "That sounded a bit ominous."

Fili's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sorry."

Kili thought he would never sleep, but before long, his eyes drifted shut. His dreams were strange. They were still in the warehouse, but the room seemed to move around them. The wall slid open, and hideous goblin men poured out, with eyes gleaming bright in their twisted faces.

He heard his brother shout his name, felt rough hands closing around him, and realized that he was no longer dreaming.

_v._

Thorin was right. They should have left him in Rivendell.

But there was no time for that now. Bilbo, at least, knew better than to struggle—their attackers were much stronger than he, and no one, not even Thorin or Dwalin, was prepared. The paneled wall had opened, and several dozen armed men had rushed out. There was no time for explanations or pleas—the tussle was quick, merciless, and soon over.

"You are trespassing," growled one of the largest men. Half his teeth were missing; his eyes glittered sharply. "You will answer to the Great One."

Bilbo looked to Thorin to make some objection, but he was silent. His eyes flitted often to his nephews, but other than that he made no move beyond the initial resistance.

_What do you expect him to do?_ Bilbo asked himself. _They are armed, and probably from some dreadful organized crime syndicate. They'd kill us just as soon as you please, and—_He tried to shake away the thoughts, to find some possibility of calm. It was of little help; woefully, he recalled his comfortable armchair and friendly neighborhood.

They were wrestled through the opening in the wall to a darkened passage. Bilbo expected some of the men to put up another fight, but they were outnumbered three to one and herded close together, too tight quarters to start a row without endangering the weaker members of the company.

_We're going to die,_ he thought, starting to panic, and observed with some chagrin that he had countenanced that thought much too often in the last few weeks.

He didn't belong here. Thorin had said it, and he had meant it. Most of the rest agreed—Bilbo Baggins, currently being hounded along by a filthy street thug with rancid breath and an iron grip—Bilbo Baggins was a little, shrinking man who had no business traipsing about on adventures.

_They'll kill you first. These sort of people always go for the weakest._

He gulped, hard, and did his best to put his thinking cap on. _You're not dead yet, you buffoon. Anything you can do to help them out of this mess?_

They were turning sharp corners and going down steps, all in darkness. Their captors appeared to know the territory well, but still—darkness.

In the bustle, Bilbo managed to slip the man's grasp, moving so that he was merely being pushed along. In another moment, he reached out, until his fingers brushed the damp stone of the wall. Swiftly, he stepped to the side, flattening himself away from the ongoing train.

It wasn't a terrible plan—or at least, it needn't have been. But Bombur was his downfall, for the fat man required two escorts, one each side, and with all the tugging and shoving, to get his considerable girth through the narrow space, Bilbo was forced once more into line. He stumbled forward and tripped, groping to stay his fall, and instead crashed his head against something hard.

Bilbo felt a sharp blaze of pain, and then nothing at all.

**A/N: Did you like it? Next up is Goblintown and Gollum! It'll be crazy...and hopefully good. ;)**


	8. to dungeons deep and caverns old

**A/N: Terribly sorry that it has been this long for an update! The reviews, favorites, follows, and reads in general are much appreciated. I have been very busy finishing my senior year in undergrad, getting into law school, and finishing a novella of my original work. Thanks for your patience. =) Hope you enjoy this one!**

_"There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after." _

_i._

Bilbo blinked, opening and closing his eyes quickly at first, and then rather slowly. The darkness was the same all the time, and for a moment he wondered if he had gone blind. But then he remembered—how he had fallen, and hurt his head—

_No doubt I have a terrible concussion,_ he thought, wincing under the throbbing ache in his skull. He knew that people who were knocked unconscious were often very badly injured, and perhaps he had lost half his wits. He thought about painting, and his classes long ago at college, and found that his brain seemed to be in working order, at least for the moment.

Not that that did much about the darkness. It was soft and quiet and stale-smelling about him, almost like a living thing. If he let himself wonder what might be hiding in the corners—ugly, evil, clever things—his mouth went very dry.

_Keep moving along, my lad,_ he told himself, and it almost sounded like Gandalf's voice, a comforting rumble in his head. Oh! If only Gandalf had come—

He got to his feet slowly, fumbling in his pockets for some sort of light. He had a little flashlight that Nori had given him, and if he had any luck at all, it wouldn't be broken.

It wasn't. But the luck was in short supply, for the slender beam was little help. It crept like a searching finger to trace the walls about him, but as for direction, or anything but a beacon to any enemy, Bilbo did not know how it could serve him.

Then he remembered his knife. In its leather sheath, it pressed comfortingly beneath his jacket. He drew it out, and the blade glinted in the flashlight's glimmer.

An artist knew how to make the most of his light. With the knife held before him, the reflection cast a more substantial glow. The passage was a gaping mouth before him, and he ran his hand along the wall, the only guide he could find.

The blackness was unyielding, but suddenly something winked at his feet. Bilbo stooped—it was strangely pleasant to see something not wholly overcome by darkness—and found with a touch and a squint that it was a vial, filled with liquid. The seal of its tiny stopper had not been broken.

_Curious_, Bilbo thought. He was a trifle disappointed—a coin or a talisman, something he might have associated with the company, would have been a great relief. This vial was, more likely than not, utterly unrelated to them—and perhaps it was a sign that they had not come down this way at all.

_But someone has,_ Bilbo thought, and he felt a little chill flutter down his spine.

He tucked the vial in the pocket of his jacket—which, surely, had seen better days—and advanced.

A few paces more, a turn, and the air had shifted. He smelled something sharp, synthetic—it reminded him of lab days in school, long ago.

He was beginning to hear something, too—the trickle of water, a faint slapping sound, like footsteps. He went very still, motioning with his little light—and the beam was shaking, because of his trembling hands.

The slapping sound had stopped.

Bilbo's light caught another gleam—two gleams—but they were not on the ground. They were at eye-level, and in half a moment—a very terrible moment—he realized that that was because they _were_ eyes.

_ii._

He had been separated from Kili. It was his own, fault, too—they must have seen how he clutched at his brother's sleeve when they were shoved along, must have sensed some connection between them.

Loathsome as they were, these thugs seemed to understand the meaning of family—or, at least, how to twist it to their own ends. There was a thread of resemblance between the swart, flat, ugly faces, as though the whole syndicate was a constant reunion.

It wasn't comforting.

They had been herded, with quite a few kicks and knocks, down into a central room in the cellars of this awful city, a belly of a room with tunnels skittering like spider-legs in every corner.

In the center of the room, on some sort of dais, was the fattest man Fili had ever seen. His greasy dress-coat was bursting at the seams, the limp yellowed shirt beneath it curled and tugged around him. His chin was bedecked with warts beneath vulgar lips. Sausage-like fingers tapped impatiently on the broad armrest of his chair, elevated almost ridiculously high in the low room, and his watery eyes surveyed the new arrivals with a baleful glare.

"Who dares—" he began, voice somewhere between a squawk and a roar, "Who _dares_ to trespass in my cellars?"

No silence had fallen for his speech—the cursing and chattering of his underlings, the prodding with weapons, merely lowered slightly, and then resumed. But one of their captors, near Fili's elbow, shoved his way forward, cracked lips pulling back over crooked teeth. "Found 'em in the back porch. Restin' up for the night, as it was or seemed to be."

Their leader—the Great Goblin, Fili thought derisively, and Kili would have snorted with laughter at that, if he had been close by—(why, why had Fili let him go?) stroked his warty chin and grimaced in a show of benevolence.

"Well?" A flabby flourish of the hand, and then, "Who will answer me? The truth now—the bloody truth. What were you doing in our territory?"

There was a silence. Fili saw Kili, seven bodies away, look back in Thorin's direction, unable to contain himself. Fili didn't give away such a tell, but he was thinking of Thorin, too. Thorin would say something—_had _to. He was the leader.

_But that's just it,_ Fili realized, a cold fear clutching at his throat. _They might recognize him._

The men were silent, pinned by their guards, waiting for some sort of signal.

None came, not yet.

The watery eyes of the Goblin-man narrowed, and his sunken cheeks flushed towards purple. "Silence," he spat, "Will get you _nowhere_. We're in the business of getting people to talk. Who should we start with…who should we _squeeze_ the details out of, hey?" His fingers wiggled, scanning the room, and then he stopped short.

So did Fili's heart.

"_That_ one!" bellowed the Goblin, jabbing a finger at Kili. "The skinny little one."

"No!" Fili shouted, as his brother was dragged forward, and so much for not showing a tell. It was futile; he was forced down, knees cracking against the cement, head jerked back by a grimy fist in his hair.

They had Kili, for all he was struggling, pushing him towards the horrible figure at the center of the room. He was dreadfully white, eyes black with fear in his face, and Fili tasted blood in his mouth.

_Please, Uncle. The quest doesn't matter. Not now. _

It—it _couldn't._

"A fine specimen," the Goblin purred, as Kili was brought before him, and he reached forward with two worm-like fingers, setting Kili's chin between them in a viselike grip and turning it this way and that.

Fili cursed under his breath, fighting in silence. He couldn't fan the flames. Kili might pay the price.

"Now, my lad." The wet, rumbling voice again—satisfied with his choice. Something to tug at the heartstrings of all of them, even if he hadn't taken note of Fili. "What can you tell us about your little band?"

"Nothing," said a voice, not Kili's. Deep as ore in the earth, steady and proud. Thorin had shaken off his guards and strode forward. His shoulders were squared under the tattered denim of his jacket—despite everything, he looked formidable, uncompromising. Anything but humble.

Kili was tossed aside in an instant, and Fili only breathed again when his brother found his feet. Kili wrapped his arms around himself, trembling a bit, but he was unhurt. That was what mattered.

The leader's eyes were on Thorin, and Fili saw, with growing horror, that there was something of recognition in the smug smile.

_This. He was setting this up. It was just a play—just a way to get Thorin in his game._

"Thorin…_Oakenshield,_ isn't it?" That, followed by a gargling laugh that seemed to shake the room. "Well now. Well _crikey_. Isn't this a surprise."

Thorin's jaw was set, his face so hard it looked like iron. That was how Fili knew he was desperate.

"I can see the same nose," the Goblin said, poking at his own. "You and the lad. He your son? Your nephew?"

"Do you really care about _him_?" Thorin returned, infusing his tone with some combination of disdain and disinterest that Fili prayed would be convincing. "You wanted something from me. But better yet, let's hear from you. What do you think _I_ want?"

The man's eyes glittered. He was so—obscenely _large_, Fili thought. A puddle of flesh. "There's more members to this here conversation, Thorin, than you and me. There's a name I think you know. Somebody what's got it in for you. An old _enemy_ of yours."

And there, in the jaw thrust forward, a tightening. Fili recognized it. He knew his uncle well, and it cut him deep and hard.

_Oh, Mum. If only you could have stopped him. Stopped all of this._

"Azog," said the Goblin, drawing out the name like a luscious oath. "Aye, you know him. And he is just _longing_ to see you."

_iii._

Trapped. They were trapped, surrounded, and even if Thorin had been the optimistic sort, he could not easily have found a way out.

In his travels, he had not come across this particular strain of filth—but he had heard of them, a nasty, petty crime organization that terrorized the dregs of the city's society.

_Just our luck_, he thought bitterly.

He would have generally resorted to the stoniest of silences, refusing to respond to threats or cajoling. But keeping Kili—keeping all of them out of this was his duty, and the mention of Azog struck dread in his heart that could not be ignored.

"What do you know of Azog?" He had long studied the habit of sounding aloof and inexorable, and it might have been enough to convince even himself, had it not been for his heart, pounding like a stone.

"I know he isn't far from here," purred the man. "We caught up just this morning. One phone call. That's all it's gonna take."

There was coarse laughter around him, and the uneasy murmuring of his own men. _Be silent_, Thorin ordered in his mind, but he could not betray himself but saying it aloud. It would be a display of weakness, having to command such a thing.

The man before him let it sink in, bulging eyes scrutinizing his every move. Then he struck again. "Of course—" spreading clammy hands broad, a ruse of conciliation—"I am a _generous_ man. I'm quite willing to negotiate, even with…_street rats_."

It didn't matter where Thorin heard it, how little he valued the opinion of the speaker—the insult grated. He was an easy target—they all were—and it was impossible not to feel it keenly, sharply. Failure was his, somewhere along the line—had to be, or they would not have ended up here.

"A deal," said the man—and Thorin was beginning to think that he looked rather like a goblin, some loathsome creature of legend, in cheap, greasy dress-clothes and a comb-over. "If you'll just give me a little…information…"

_Information?_ This would turn ugly in a moment. Thorin racked his brain for some sort of plan—it was clear to see that the man's underlings were far from organized. Their strength was in numbers, and though they were far from orderly in the presence of their leader, they watched his every move.

_Kill him,_ Thorin thought, _and there would be chaos. We might have a chance—_

But there was no time for him to make such a daring break, or to have a hope of success. The goblin had the power, at the moment, and any reckless attempts would be fatal.

"A deal?" he forced himself to ask, voice thick.

"I'll set you free." There was a ripple of laughter among their captors, and Thorin ground his teeth. "All you have to do is just—tell me. Where are you going, with this rag-tag band?"

"Where have they come from, more like, sir," snarled one of his followers, before Thorin could retort. He saw that Nori was struggling and protesting, but that the thug had managed to search his pockets.

Thorin steeled himself for the worst.

"Bloke's got a _golden_ _fountun pen_," the thug went on. "From—why, from Rivendell!"

A roar went up at that, and Thorin barely had time to favor Nori with an icy glare before they were crushed by a surge of enraged assailants.

"Rivendell!" shrieked their leader, with a hideous sneer. "Is this some sort of—_infiltration_? Do you think you can sneak into my territory, spying for those bloody lawyers?"

Things might have gone badly after that, very badly indeed, but before they were quite overcome there was a flash, and then darkness—complete and sudden as a clap of thunder. Thorin recovered quickly, and he thought Dwalin did too, if the sounds of grunts and blows was any indicator—but then the lights flicked on again.

The goblin-man gave a choking gasp. There was a gun pressed to his temple, and behind him loomed a tall figure in a battered fedora.

His followers stood stock-still, silent for the first time, jaws hanging open. Thorin had been right about one thing—they were lost (at least momentarily) without their leader.

"Now," said Gandalf. "About those negotiations."

_iv._

It was like watching puppets have their strings cut, Kili thought, except these puppets were men, ugly and cruel, yet seemingly cowed by the suppression of their leader.

Gandalf was only one, but he was strangely imposing in his rumpled hat and old coat. His eyes shone fierce and hard, his grip on the gun was unwavering. "Weapons down," he commanded. "Unless you'd like to see what a bullet to the head looks like at close range."

Guns and knives clattered down. At a nod from Thorin, Kili and the rest caught them up, regaining their own when they could. Fili had his knives, Kili saw, and he wasn't sure if Thorin had ever lost hold of the Orcrist blade.

"Go," Gandalf told Thorin, and there was a protest from their captors at that, but Gandalf reached deftly with his other hand and twisted their leader's arm behind his back so that the man squealed.

"_Go._"

"Run," Thorin grated out, and Kili thought that Thorin didn't like taking orders, even now.

They ran out the way that Gandalf motioned to with a tilt of his head, and then the man himself was after them, laughing under his breath

Kili couldn't find anything amusing at the moment.

"They'll be after us!" Gandalf said, and they were, howling and shrieking and firing bullets, as though life had been restored to them along with the release of their leader.

Then there was a splendid row, though Kili had no pretense of enjoying it. They were woefully outnumbered, but Thorin's company was formidable, especially now that they were now not taken by surprise.

And now, they had a goal. A destination, with Gandalf herding them along, counting and muttering under his breath while his sword staff whirled sharp and silver in the uneven light.

It grew darker as they went along, and the fighting was uglier in the near-blackness. Yet whenever he was near his brother, Kili could see Fili's eyes on him—that questioning look he'd recognized longer than he could remember, asking, always: _are you alright?_

_I'm_ _fine,_ he wanted to shout, but the words were sticking in his throat, and he told himself it was because he was running and fighting, throwing kicks and punches wherever he could get them in.

(But there had been that moment, that terrible moment, when those horrible fingers had pressed against his face, and he had been so afraid that no one would save him—)

_You're an idiot_, he told himself. _They always save you. Uncle, and Fili._

Later—if there _was_ a later—he would let Fili talk all the fear out of him, until it was nothing but a vaguely unpleasant memory.

_Later_.

Kili split his knuckles against someone's nose, and kept running.

_v._

_It is quiet here. Always, so quiet._

_We have been here a long time. So long, we almost don't remember. _

_The halls are our friends—we have counted the steps. Thirty steps, and wait. Turn left, twenty-two steps. _

_Wait long enough, and a smallish one will come. Foolish and thoughtless, swinging a light before him._

_A quick grab, quicker if the neck is thin. _

_The smallish ones squeak, if we are not careful. _

_But we are careful. We have been here a long time. _

_We have been here as long as the Precious, and the Precious will not leave us._

_It is quiet here, but for them—loud and ugly in the halls. _

_This one is different. Different in the voice, and in the neck, though we can't know, not without our hands around it._

_This one has a blade. This one is afraid, and does not try to hide it._

_This one may be tricksy; we are not yet sure._

_Yes, tricksy._

_No, no. Not tricksy. Just afraid._

_We know that that is good. Afraid. Afraid of us. Afraid of our long, clever hands. Afraid of how we waited in the darkness._

_It wants to get out. It is lost. Lost! It does not know to count the steps. _

_We could show it._

_Will it come with us? Will it come inside?_

_We will show it the way, if it talks to us. If it tells us things, things we want to know. _

_And if it does not?_

_We can wait. We are good at waiting. _

_It comes. It has no choice—so pale, stuttering like a smallish one. Would it squeak, we wonders? We may find out._

_It comes, and we walk close by, yes, very close. It comes, forty-three paces, inside—_

_And we wait._


End file.
